Dragonheart
by Parmecia
Summary: Nhiilaa Ijorta is just a young Nord girl attempting to gain a little fame in the Arena. That is, until the Gray Prince asks her to find evidence of his identity. Joy.
1. Crowhaven

_Author's Note: Obviously I don't own Oblivion. I own Nhiilaa and that's about it. Oh, and the text from the quests themselves are totally made up._

_--_

The Bloodworks thoroughly epitomized the word 'putrid'. The days were hot and muggy due to the incessant training of the fighters of the Arena, while the nights were frozen. A person could wake up cold and go to bed drenched in sweat, and then count themselves lucky if it didn't freeze over the next morning to perpetuate their misery by starting out soaked to the bones. Orders and curses constantly flung at anyone less than the Gray Prince himself, Agronak gro-Malog. Baths were almost unheard of to those of the lower ranks, as the fighters hogged the baths after their fights, cleansing themselves from the stink of battle. Someone was earning themselves a new bruise almost every moment, be it a fighter in the ring, grappling for their very lives, or an orphan picked up by Owyn in a rare merciful mood to become a servant in the Bloodworks.

It was there that Nhiilaa Ijorta wanted to be right now. Instead, she was stuck making her way through the mist towards some out of the way miserable old fort off the coast of Anvil. Worst of it was she had to walk all the way from the Imperial City to Anvil in just six days; she had been denied the luxury of her slow, slow paint horse that she had taken to the City in the first place by that lovely orc who ran the stable. Claimed that the horse had gotten out and had run away, but that horse was approaching twelve years old. He couldn't have run off even if he wanted to.

Due to this little set back, she had to wear all her armor as she walked to Anvil, and it was steel armor at that. In addition, she had to carry her shield on her arm and have her sword at her belt at all times. Though, she had to admit, it did keep the bandits from attacking her at first glimpse. No, they at least had the decency to wait until she was good and closes and _then_ attempt to slit her throat and rob her of her money.

Currently, the sun was obscured by a thick layer of clouds, water condensing from the mist onto her armor, cooling it so thoroughly that even her skin turned to ice underneath a layer of wool clothing. Her teeth were chattering to such a degree that the visor kept slamming down, narrowing her vision. Finally she caught sight of the old fort, and she made her ascent up the hill, silently praying to Ysmir that whatever was in that fort was already dead.

Nhiilaa took a moment to fumble in a little satchel she kept at her belt for the old fort's key that was given to her by Agronak. It was a curious thing, as it was shaped in a rather odd manor. Instead of it being completely straight, it zigzagged, and it was strangely heavy for such a little thing. The Nord placed it in the lock and turned it, wincing as the bolt slid out with a heavy thunk. The door groaned in protest as she shoved it open and Nhiilaa stepped inside. A dank scent greeted her. She frowned, for it smelled heavily of death but at the same time, of a death not natural at all. If she wasn't mistaken, the air reeked heavily of… _blood_.

_--_

"_Hey, Nhiilaa, could I speak with you a moment?"_

"_What do you need?"_

"_I need you to do me a favor. Have you heard of a fort called Crowhaven?"_

"_Not in particular. I told you before; my mother wasn't interested in any fort that wasn't Ayleid."_

"_Could you go there for me? Before my own mother died, she told me about my father. He was a noble, and he lived in a fort called Crowhaven. I need to know if he is my true father. Look for proof, a journal or something. Here's the key. It's a little northwest of the city of Anvil."_

"_Alright, no problem."_

"_Thank you." Agronak grinned from ear to ear as the confused Nord girl took the key and went off to scrub the floors._

_--_

Something wasn't quite right. Something evil was here. Nhiilaa could feel it in her bones, and it wasn't just the chill. She risked a small illumination spell, just until she could get her bearings. The fort had a few rats, but that wasn't what was bothering her. Nay, she had expected the rats. She had, in fact, expected bandits to be in the process of ransacking the place and for to have to fight them all heroically in order to gain some priceless medallion with Agronak's name carved in it or something. The specific lack of bandits was what worried her. What if they had already come and gone, and taken said heirloom with them? It certainly wouldn't do to return to the Prince without a shred of evidence of his lineage.

It was the feeling of absolute worry that she couldn't shake. She searched random crate upon crate and chest upon chest. Hell, she even dug through the barrels of spoiled meats and fruits for just _one_ random piece of something she had no idea of. After four hours of combing the fort thoroughly, she sat on the floor outside of a large wooden door. She removed her helm, and attempted to smooth her bright blonde braids back into place to no avail. Her pale skin seemed to glow from the light of her torch that she had lit; she grew weary of casting her illumination spell over and over again. By her calculations, it was about three hours until midnight. Her stomach growled angrily, for she had neglected eating a proper meal before she left the Anvil inn in order to retrieve whatever the hell she was looking for. In her hip-satchel she found a bruised and discolored pear. It would have to suffice until she got back to the town. She ate quietly, her sword and shield sitting on the cold floor next to her.

_--_

"_Before I leave, what is it that I'm supposed to be looking for?"_

"_I have no idea, honestly. A journal, a medallion, anything that remotely would give me a clue as to who I am."_

"_You do realize that I'm going on a hunt for I don't know what in a place that I've never even heard of that's most likely a home to bandits or large furry animals waiting to feast on my innards, right?"_

"_Yes, I do. And I appreciate it."_

"_Well as long as you know that and are totally willing to risk my life, I suppose it's alright."_

"_That's what I thought. Better you than me."_

"_Oh, you're so caring."_

"_I know. It's one of my many good qualities."_

"_I'd hate to see your bad ones."_

_--_

An earsplitting crash coming from beyond the door ripped Nhiilaa out of her memory and onto the floor in shock. She clapped a hand to her mouth in order to prevent herself from squealing and missed, instead smacking herself in the nose. She let out a moan of pain and rubbed it, hoping the pain would dissipate. Glaring at the door, she picked up her sword and shield before standing up. She slipped her helm back onto her head and waited for a few minutes. As she pressed her ear to the door she listened to hear if whatever had caused the crash was still moving about. Nothing. Well, nothing besides scratching on what it seemed walls far from the door. Her heart jumped down into her stomach and started beating hard. Suddenly, having to combat a group of bandits didn't seem like such a good idea.

'If I die, he better stay away from my funeral,' she thought to herself as she removed the bolt that held the door locked. She leaned on it with all her weight, and the door opened slowly with a loud creak. Whatever was inside was surely aware of her presence now. She held her sword in hand and took a cautious step into the room. With the hand with the shield she pulled her visor down over her face to protect herself. Her boots made loud clunking sounds as she took a defensive stance as she moved through the large chamber. It appeared that it was some sort of bedroom, albeit it a… macabre bedroom. She could see bloodstains on the flagstones in the dim light cast from the torch.

It was at that moment that she realized what was so wrong about this scene. She no longer held her torch. She had left it on the floor outside the door. A glance up to the wall confirmed her worst fear: The sconces on the walls were lit. Someone was living in this bedchamber. And, it appeared, they had a liking for bloodshed.

Her pulse quickened, and she turned about nervously. In the shadow of a statue she could see someone- or something- lurking, whispering grisly things that she couldn't quite make out. It seemed that they were too enraptured with whatever they were muttering about that they hadn't actually noticed her. She took a step forward, squinting to see what it was. Whatever it was, it jerked upright and hissed. Nhiilaa let out a peep as the humanoid shape stepped into the light.

It was the angle of the face which caught her attention. It was haggard and worn and angular all at the same time. It was as if the flesh had dried to the skull, and red eyes protruded from the sockets, glinting with an obvious hunger. The creature was impossibly thin, almost a skeleton. Despite its hunched back, it was a tall figure, and it seemed to grow with every step. As it approached her slowly, almost disbelievingly, Nhiilaa realized that despite the long gray hair, which stuck to the skull in clumps in parts and hung greasily in others, that the creature was, at least, once a man. An Imperial, by the looks of it. Now it was a monster, a vampire, and it thirsted for her blood. She let out a scream at this realization.

The vampire lunged at that moment. In her terror, Nhiilaa threw up her sword and shield in an effort to protect her face. All thoughts of her previous fighting training drained from her body; she was relying on pure instinct in her state of sheer panic. The leech hit her shield and recoiled. Nhiilaa, with her back now against the wall, grasped for the sconce above her head. As he got up from his shocked state, she wrenched the flaming candle from its post and waved it in front of her. He cackled, slamming it easily from her hand and in horror, she watched it clatter to the floor. The vampire pinned her to the wall and hissed, "Release! Sweet Release! After all these years, these decades, I am finally free! And you! So... so fresh! I must feed!"

Nhiilaa could feel the tears roll from her eyes. Now was not the time to be crying, she attempted to remind herself. 'Stop being such a wimp, Ijorta! Now is the time to fight for your very life!' she thought angrily.

"I must feed!" the vampire said again, this time a shout, knocking Nhiilaa from her stupor. She hit the creature with the hilt of her sword in the temple and wrenched herself free from its grip. As she backed away from the wall, she lifted her sword, pointing it at the vampire. He hissed and lunged forward. With a cry of half fear, half despiration, she swung her blade, cutting deeply into its side. The vampire was weak with hunger, and its bloodlust was all-consuming. He lunged again, and this time ran himself through on her outstretched sword. His lips became bloodflecked as he sputtered, sinking to his knees. Nhiilaa watched in horror and it continued to reach for her in an attempt to knick her and spill her blood. With one hand, the vampire touched his own wound above where her blade was still thrust into his chest.

"I must feed…" he whispered, lifting his cupped hand, which he had filled with his own blood, to his lips. "I… must… feed," was all he would manage to say. He sputtered, blood now drizzled from his mouth freely as Nhiilaa wrenched out her sword and stabbed the creature again. He coughed, laughing as he made to capture a bit more of the crimson fluid flowing from his wounds. However, his laugh was cut short as Nhiilaa severed his head from his shoulders. The newly decapitated skull rolled across the floor to her feet, its sickly smile and demonic eyes staring up at her.

"Well that's just disgusting," she managed to say after a few minutes. Making a face, she picked up the head, and placed it with its corpse. She grabbed a torch from the wall and made her way back to the body. In the new light of the flame, she noticed that the vampire was carrying a small leather-bound book. Curiosity grabbed the best of her, and she picked it up and shoved it into her satchel. After lighting the edge of the creature's pants ablaze, she began to explore the chamber. She took what items of interest were there and left the chamber.

"That was a bloody waste of time. I didn't find anything!" she exclaimed. After roaming the fort for another hour, she left it, satisfied that she left no stone unturned. She returned to the inn with a broken spirit and went immediately up to her room. She shed her armor and hopped into bed exhausted. Every part of her hurt, and all for what? A few lousy trinkets and a moldy book. Oh well, she would have to worry about Agronak's reaction in the morning. Right now, well, she was just too damned tired to care.


	2. Just a Little Bit Creepy

_Author's Note: Nhiilaa's father's a devout follower of the Nordic pantheon, by the way. Alduin is the Nordic god of time. He's also known as the 'eater of worlds' and is both a creator and a destroyer. :D_

Light fizzled through the curtains of Nhiilaa's room at the inn, bathing her face with its golden beams. Her nose twitched a bit, and then resettled to resume her angelic pose. She opened her eyes, and the façade of purity and grace shattered. The Nord groaned miserably and promptly rolled back over and buried her face in her pillow. Every muscle in her body was screaming in dire agony, especially her arms. Something was sticking her in the side, and she dug around in pain to find it. It was the stupid, moldy old leather book. She glanced at it, made a face, and promptly tossed it against the wall, which it hit with a loud thud and dropped onto the pile of armor. This, in turn, led to a loud clash, followed by more clattering as the pile went on to spill all over the floor. She opened an eye to survey the pile. With a groan, she stood and stretched. Bending down to pick up the pile, she tossed the book onto her bedside table and then crawled back into the warmth of her bed.

--

"_Ijorta, get out of bed!"_

"_But it's so comfy! Just five more minutes, please!"_

"_That's what you said an hour ago, Ijorta."_

"_Oh, but I mean it this time, Papa, I swear."_

_Ingar sighed. "Five minutes, and not a minute more. Your mother will be home in five hours and I want her to come home to a daughter that's actually awake for once."_

"_Thank you, Papa."_

_--_

Nhiilaa's eyes snapped open. She sat up in bed and shook herself awake. Walking over to the basin, she took deep even breaths to slow her racing heart. After splashing some cool water onto her skin, she wiped it off with her sleeve. She hadn't thought about that day for a long time, nor did she particularly want to remember. Quickly, she dressed in a simple outfit of leather riding pants and a plain vest. She slipped on her leather boots and packed her belongings. In her mind, she decided to leave Anvil at about midday. That would give her just enough time to eat, resupply, and tie up her loose ends. As she breakfasted on a light meal of bread and cheese, she made a quick list of the supplies she would need. She remembered the musty tome that she had tossed carelessly onto the side table and decided to give it a glance-over once she set off from the town. It was promptly shoved into a pocket of her bag. After opening the door and attaching her satchel to her belt, she walked down the stairs to the main area of the inn. At the bar was Wilbur, the inn-keeper. He nodded to her as she walked out the door and made her way towards a house somewhat near Morvayn's Peacemakers. She opened the door and called, "Papa? Are you awake yet?" A crash resounded from the kitchen.

"By Alduin's beard, Nhiilaa Ijorta what did I say about sneaking up on your aged father?!" Ingar the Loud shouted, completely living up to his name. Nhiilaa giggled.

"Sorry Papa, I didn't think you would hear me. After all, your hearing much be going, O Ancient One," she teased. She bent down to pick up the pewter bowl her father had apparently dropped and handed it to him.

"Hmph, well I'm not THAT decrepit. Now, what're you doing here? I thought you were still in the Imperial City."

"Oh, a friend asked me to do a favor for him. One of those things I couldn't refuse on pain of death."

"Hah. You've time to breakfast with your ol' man, I suppose?"

"Papa, I always have time for a meal made by you," Nhiilaa replied smiling. Ingar grunted and handed her a bowl of lamb stew and a half a loaf of bread. She took the bowl and spoon and sat at the table, which was nestled underneath the window. It was as if her old home was stuck in a time whirl, even the flowers in the vase on the table were the same as when she had left. The only thing that seemed to change was her father; his face now held a few more wrinkles of worry and age, and his once bright blue eyes seemed a shade or two darker. She thought of her own eyes, and wondered if they had made the same transformation. The only reflective surface she had seen in five years was the shine of her own sword.

Her father took the seat opposite of her's. Instead of eating his meal, he studied her daughter's face. What a sight she was! Her hair was unkempt and lazily thrown into twin braids running from the back of her head, her face unadorned by any form of cosmetic aid, and her face itself was beginning to show signs of age that a seventeen-year-old girl's face shouldn't be showing.

"You look… well enough," he finally managed to say. She had been engorging herself on the stew as if it was the best thing in the world. "Have you been busy?"

"Umh hmm. I'vef beem vmerry bushy," she muttered as she inhaled her meal.

"Nhiilaa don't talk with your mouth full. You'll choke and die," Ingar said with a chuckle. Nhiilaa sat up straight and swallowed her mouthful. "Now what did you say?"

"I said, 'uh huh. I've been very busy.' I'm a myrmidon now," a smile played on her lips as she beamed with pride.

"And I suppose you're happy?"

"Happy enough. I'd rather that I would be able to get home more often to see you."

"Bah, you want nothing to do with an old man like me. Go ahead, go, leave me to die in the gutter somewhere, I understand! You've a very busy life," he said dramatically. He placed a hand to his heart and feigned passing out onto the table.

"Papa, you're only forty-three."

"… Bah. You're no fun," he teased. Nhiilaa pushed her bowl to the side, finished. Her father cast a disapproving glance, again amazed at how fast the girl could eat.

"How is Uncle Newheim doing?"

"Oh, some stupid ring of bandits stole his bloody flagon. He's all broken up about it," Ingar said with a smirk. Newheim the Portly and Ingar the Loud had been friends ever since their boyhood days in Skyrim. Their families had gone back generations and generations, so it was a no brainer when Ingar and his wife Hjotra moved to Bruma and then Anvil with their small daughter, Ijorta that Newheim and his family would also follow. Newheim's wife perished on the journey, which had left a scar on him that made him nasty to any stranger. The flagon was his most prized possession, for it kept any ale at a pristine chill. 'Oh well,' thought Nhiilaa. 'You win some, you lose some.'

"Well I'm sure as bloody hell not going to get it for him. He can go and get it himself." Ingar smirked at his daughter's comment. He picked up the bowls and tossed them into a bucket to wash later.

"When are you leaving?"

"About midday. I was wondering…"

"Yes, you can take your horse." Nhiilaa's face lit up with glee. "Just make sure that bloody damn orc that takes care of the stable in that wretched city doesn't eat it. He's a fine horse."

"Thank you Papa! And don't worry, I'd have her head on a pike if she touched my Morihaus," she said. Jumping up from the table, she gave her father a kiss on the cheek. "I would love to stay, Papa, but I really must go. I'll be back soon, I promise." She bounced toward the door.

"Ysmir's blessings!" Ingar shouted after his daughter. He let out a deep sigh. "That girl's going to get herself killed, I know it."

--

"_Have you decided a name on your pony, Ijorta?"_

"_Oh yes, Papa. Momma suggested the perfect name for him!"_

"_Speak up, girl, what is it?"_

"_It's Morihaus! Doesn't it sound fancy? It's perfect for him!" Nhiilaa bounced up and down in glee at her father's knee._

"_A regal name for a regal horse! He was a great hero for us, you know. Very famous back home. Are you sure your mother suggested that?"_

"_Well at first she wanted me to name him Mathmeldi but that was way too girly. My horse isn't a girl." The girl crossed her arms defiantly and made a face. Ingar emitted a booming laugh; leave it to his wife to suggest something Ayleid for the name of a horse._

--

Nhiilaa walked calmly back to the inn to arrange for a porter to saddle her belongings onto her horse for her. Wilbur looked curiously at her and said, "So the old man's finally letting you take your own horse? Wonder what made him change his mind." Nhiilaa just grinned and shrugged, announcing that she was just happy to have her horse back. The porter returned and informed her that her bag was safely attached to the horse and that should could leave at any time. After slipping the porter a gold piece, she darted to where her horse was stabled.

It was impossible to keep her smile away any longer as she approached her horse. He was a fine example of Anvil's white stallions, his gleaming coat was a pure, milk white, and it caught the light just so to make himself glow a bit. Nhiilaa had gotten him when she was just twelve-years-old, and he was just a foal. Her father had been quite successful at the sailing business, and Nhiilaa had always wanted a pony. She brushed Morihaus' mane from in front of his eyes and buried her face in his neck. In the past five years he had grown to be quite a fine horse, powerful in build yet fast. He could bear her weight along with the weight of his possessions and still could gallop with the ferocity and speed of a thunderstorm.

She swung into the saddle awkwardly, for it had been years since she had ridden last. Confidently she took the reigns in her hands and nudged her heels into his sides, spurring the beast forward and out of the gate. She took the road leading to Skingrad, and if she was lucky she would reach the city before nightfall. Her mind was made up that she was going to stop in every major city along the way; she was not exited at all to be back on the road and returning to the Bloodworks for more work. A feeling of forgetfulness washed over her as the silhouette of Anvil faded from behind her back and Skingrad's loomed on the horizon. The landscape shifted gradually from seas of tall grasses to bushes and large, shady trees. Sheep were out on hilly pastures and on the road next to her, shepherds kept a careful eye on them as they grazed. Nhiilaa nodded slightly in greeting to each one as she passed.

It was about four hours until midnight when she finally reached the gates of Skingrad. She rode around on a side road until she found the stable, and paid for her horses stay. A guard glared, but let her in; it was rather close to midnight for normal people to be out for a ride in the country. She made her way toward the West Weald Inn and woke up the proprietor before paying for a room for the night. She dragged her immense pack up the stairs, for she did not trust people to not steal it off her horse during the middle of the night, and placed it at the foot of the bed. As she was about to climb into bed and allow for sleep to claim her, she remembered the book she had found in Crowhaven. With a sigh, she pulled it out of her bag and began to read.

'_Nay. In fact, she is the perfect representative of her race, green skin, muscular frame and all. But beautiful she is, all the same. For who am I to judge? Who am I to criticize when so many would condemn my very existence?'_

'What the hell is this?!' Nhiilaa thought in disgust. 'Some crappy romance novel, probably. Well, I don't _remember_ seeing a copy of 'The Lusty Argonian Maid', but that does seem to be this vampire's thing.' She made a face as she read on. The face contorted into one of extreme concern. Whoever the author of this journal, as it seemed it was, had to have been Agronak's father. His mother was mentioned and everything. The entries became more and more twisted, until they finally led to '_Food blood blood blood blood I need it I need blood need blood' _and the last _'…'_. Nhiilaa pondered this for a moment as she put the clues together in her mind. 'If this is really a journal, and I found it on that vampire…. Oh. Well. That's not something I expected at all,' she thought. 'I guess Agronak's really not fully… mortal… after-- His father tried to kill me! Oh gods, I killed his father!' The color completely drained from her face as she thrust the journal away from her. It landed on the floor next to the wall, and as she looked at it, she could have sworn that it hissed at her.

Nhiilaa blew out her candle and sunk underneath the covers of her bed, but only after she pulled a knife out of her bag and slipped it underneath her pillow. She pulled the blanket up and over her head, hiding it seemed from the book. 'Get a grip, Nhiilaa,' she had to remind herself. 'It's just a dumb ol' book. All you have to do is tell Agronak that you didn't find anything, that the door was busted open and the place was ransacked by bandits before you go there. You don't have to tell him that you killed his father.' Thoughts about excuses and reasons why she couldn't find anything in the damn fort raced through her head until midnight, when her exhaustion got the better of her and she slipped into an unrestful and fitful sleep.When she awoke the next morning, the book was back on her bags, seemingly staring maliciously up at her. Her gaze focused on the tome angrily as she threw up her hands.

"Oh, well that's not just a _little_ bit creepy," she said sarcastically. It was not going to be a pleasant day.


	3. Bloody Bastard

_Author's Note: We're just going to pretend that the Bloodworks have more than one room, now shall we?_

Nhiilaa glared at Lord Lovidicus' journal, which was currently staring up at her from on top of her bags. She pulled her steel armor from her bag and made a face; the cuirass was still flecked with the vampire's blood. After cleaning it up with a damp rag, she donned the suit sans her helm, which she tucked into her bag carefully on top of the journal. Remembering that she had left a dagger under her pillow, she crossed the room and pulled it out. It was a fine silver dagger, unlike the simple steel long sword she carried at her belt. She tucked it into her bag and shouldered it. It was extraordinarily light now that the armor wasn't in it, and she dejectedly moved down the stairs and towards a table of the inn, ordering a meal of mutton and bread to breakfast on before leaving again for the Imperial City. She ate her meal in silence despite the few other patrons, all led by a Bosmer, making a ruckus. She observed the clan suspiciously, and noted a particularly awkward Breton girl with bright red hair in the corner, apparently trying to blend in with the shadows. Nhiilaa chuckled to herself; if she was looking to meld with the shadows, that hair certainly wouldn't do it.

After paying the tab, Nhiilaa cast a glance back at the Breton. She was twitching as nervously as a rabbit caught in a hunter's trap. Nhiilaa shook her head and smiled. 'Poor thing,' she thought. 'You'll never be able to sneak around when you're that skittish.' The bright sun greeted her harshly as she pushed open the worn door, the light reflected off of her armor and into her eyes. She winced and placed a hand on her brow to shade her eyes as she made her way toward the gate. The guard was almost asleep at his post; apparently they hadn't changed the guard since she arrived last night.

"Excuse me?" Nhiilaa cleared her throat. The guard stuttered awake and allowed his eyes to focus on her. He stared at her blankly, as if she wasn't even there.

"Could you open the gates?" she asked calmly.

"That takes too much effort. Go to the other gate," he harrumphed. Nhiilaa sighed as she made her way toward the western gate.

"Bloody fetcher makin' me walk all this way. Now I've got to _walk_ all the way around to the stables," she muttered to herself angrily as she marched.

"Psssssst! Over here!" a voice called. She lifted her head and glanced around, her eyes falling on a Bosmer man, dressed in a blue and brown outfit. The voice seemed to have been coming from him. "Yes, you!" he whispered, motioning to her. She obeyed and walked over to him, his eyes still darting about, as if trying to see if she had been followed. He muttered to himself, something almost inaudible and she strained to catch his words, "_Oh yes, she'll do quite nicely. Oh they'll see now. Glarthir isn't crazy!_" So she was dealing with a nut. Perfect.

"May I help you?" she asked with a smile. Best appease him and then be on her way so that he doesn't make a scene. That would have been the last thing that she needed right now, a crazy Bosmer shouting about and ruining her day even more thoroughly.

"We can't speak here! Meet me behind the chapel of Julianos at midnight tonight!" the Bosmer, presumably this Glarthir he had been muttering about, said with a twitch. He turned around and walked away, looking back every few seconds to make sure that he wasn't being followed.

"Just ignore Glarthir, he's having one of his spells," another voice commented. Nhiilaa jumped and whirled around to see a guard standing behind her. He smiled kindly with understanding, and she looked at him, puzzled. "Glarthir's a bit… eccentric."

"I could see that," she commented, nodding.

"If he asks you to do anything suspicious, tell me," the guard concluded, still smiling. Something about that smile sent shivers down her spine.

"Uh, alright. But I was actually trying to leave. The other guard wouldn't open the gate, so I have to walk all the way to the other one."

"Oh, I can open that gate for you, miss. Come with me." Well, at least she was getting some help. Ever since she had woken up this morning and caught sight of that accursed journal, the whole damned city was giving her the creeps. She followed the guard to the eastern gate and thanked him as he opened it, that sickly smile still plastered on his face. Excited to just be out of that city, she made her way to the stable and tied her bag to Morihaus' saddle. She mounted and galloped out of the gates, just grateful to be on the road again and to put some distance between herself and that accursed town. As she rode down the road, she noticed some children, two boys and a girl, playing with a flock of sheep. A man, presumably their father, was sitting with his shepherd's crook in hand, watching the children play. Nhiilaa smiled at the group as she rode past, giggling softly to herself as the girl knocked one of the old boys to the ground in order to get back a cloth doll that the boy had taken from her.

--

"_Give it back!"_

"_No! Nords are all smelly barbarians! Barbarians don't need pretty dolls to play with!" The boy sneered at her. He was missing part of one of his front teeth; it had been chipped when he had gotten into a brawl with another boy. Tears stung at Nhiilaa's eyes. The Altmer boy that faced her was seven-years-old, just a year older than the little Nord girl who had just moved from their home in Falkreath in Skyrim to Bruma, and was already quite a bit taller than she was._

"_I said 'give it back' Suurootan!"_

"_No way!" With a cry, she ran forward as fast as she could, arms outstretched. She made contact, shoving the boy. He staggered backward and lost his footing on the damp grass, slipping and falling into a puddle of mud._

"_You pushed me!" he cried. "Take your stupid doll! It's ugly like you anyway." Suurootan stood and ran back toward the gates sobbing for his mother. She bent down to scoop up her doll, which too had been caked with mud, and frowned._

"_Suurootan, you got mud on my doll!" she shouted after him and began to run after him._

--

About an hour before sunset, Nhiilaa could finally see the bridge to the Imperial City. 'Finally!' she thought before spurring Morihaus into a canter. She stopped at the stable and paid the orc a handsome sum to keep her horse safe.

"I would be so heartbroken if anything happened to my horse. He's not one to run away or anything, and I would hate to have to notify the authorities if he disappears. Don't want to have to waste time catching a horse-thief. Take extra good care of him, please," she said with a smile, dually noting the orc's eye twitch as she placed emphasis on the word 'authorities'.

"Don't worry, miss. We'll take great care of the little darling," the orc-woman replied, faking a smile. Nhiilaa nodded her head and exited the shack. With her head held high, she entered the City and made a bee-line for the Arena district. Maybe if she was lucky, she could sneak into the Bloodworks and onto her sleeping mat before the Gray Prince could catch up with her. That would at least give her some time to think of a good lie as to why she couldn't find any evidence. The bandit theory was beginning to look a bit weak, as she stuttered every time she tried to say it aloud in practice for when she told Agronak.

Quietly, she pushed open the door to the Bloodworks to the familiar stench of sweat and blood, and the comforting sounds of a sword hitting a target. Well, it would have been comforting if it hadn't had been Agronak's sword hitting the dummy closest to the door. He looked up and smiled at her.

"Oh good! You're back from Crowhaven! What news do you have?" Agronak beamed as he rushed toward her. She panicked, looking around for a bit of inspiration for a quick lie, and of course, finding none.

"Oh… h-hello Agronak…" she stammered.

"Well? Did you find anything?" He was excited. His eyes were glimmering with a sensation of hope and admiration. She'd hate to disappoint him like this; to know that he was the son of a hellion would crush him completely, leaving her with a muddied conscious.

"Well uhm, you see, the funny thing is that I actually haven't gone to Crowhaven yet," she said quickly, amazed at her own words. They seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

"You… haven't gone to Crowhaven yet. What the bloody hell were you doing for the past four days then?!" Agronak's hopeful eyes morphed into eyes of extreme anger and hatred. Nhiilaa swallowed hard.

"You see, I couldn't… I couldn't find Crowhaven and had to come back for uhm, some more specific directions! No one in Anvil had even heard of it, let alone seen it!"

"Are you lying to me?" He scrutinized her face.

"Of course not! Why would I lie?" She plastered a look of insult and shame onto her face and hoped to high heaven that it would work.

"Hmm… I suppose you have no reason to lie. Unfortunately I don't have any better directions, but there might be someone in Cheydinhal who might know. Perhaps you could try my Auntie Borba. She was a friend of my mother's, and from what I understand quite an adventurer. She might've gone and found it," he offered. Nhiilaa sighed in relief, half that she now had an alibi that would allow her more time to think of how to actually break the news to him, and that she wouldn't have to ride all the way back to Anvil immediately. She could visit Cheydinhal and visit an old friend or two while asking Borba about Agronak's mother and Crowhaven, just to establish that she was there, and then find some out of the way town to visit. She wouldn't even have to go back to Anvil!

"I'll set out in a few days. I'd like to take a rest before I head out," she said with a smile.

"Not so fast, meat," a masculine voice resounded behind her. Nhiilaa groaned.

"What is it now, Owyn?" she whined dejectedly.

"You've been skipping out on your duties. Go change and go scrub the floors," Owyn said with a twisted smirk.

"I've been riding all day to get back here! At least let me rest!"

"Not a chance. You didn't even tell me you were leaving. You had a fight that we had to cancel. Not a smart move. Which reminds me, we had to put someone else in your stead, so you'll be picking up his duties too for the amount of time that you were gone."

"You can't be serious! I was only gone for four days! And I told Ysabel!"

"Well she didn't tell me. Now get scrubbing, girl," and with that, Owyn turned and began to yell at another poor soul. Nhiilaa sighed in anger as she pulled up her bag and made her way toward the dormitories. She changed quickly into rough sackcloth leggings and a tunic, and slipped on her old worn leather boots. After stashing her armor in a chest and locking it she thought, 'Just like Owyn to be a bastard.' Owyn handed her a bucket of water and pointed to the hall which led to the door to the Arena itself. She groaned as she looked at the river of blood stained onto the stones. This was going to take all night.

--

"_Sorry, the Arena's not a place for a kid."_

"_Please! I have no where else to go…I'll do anything!"_

"_Where're your parents?" The girl standing in front of Owyn sniffled. She appeared to be no more than twelve at the most. While she was a Nord, she was not as strongly built as some of the other Nord children he had seen, for while most of them were barrel chested, she was a bit thinner. Her bright blonde hair had been pulled into two tight braids, and her blue eyes were tearing up._

"_Oh nevermind that. Can you clean?"_

"_Of course I can clean!" Her accent was a thick Nordic one, but her manner of speaking had an air of properness that one did not usually see in children. Whoever she was, her parents must've sent her to at least some level of education._

"_Good, what's your name?"_

"_Ijorta-- It's Nhiilaa, sir."_

"_That doesn't matter here. No one's going to care who you are here. In fact, no one's going to really care about you."_

"_I understand that."_

"_Good, now get scrubbing, girl." And with that, he thrust a large bucket into Nhiilaa's arms. She took the bucket by the handle and ran off to go scrub the blood out of the hallway that led to the combatant zone of the Arena._

"_She won't last a week," a woman in the corner pronounced._

"_Always the pessimist, aren't we, Ysabel?"_

"_I call 'em as I see 'em. She's never going to amount to anything."_

--

"Stupid bloody Owyn," Nhiilaa swore. She stood, admiring her handiwork. Instead of there being a dark brown stain marring the floor; it was only a light brown stain after hours upon hours of scrubbing. Picking up the bucket, she made her way down the hall and back to the dormitory when she flopped onto her sleeping mat. Her shoulders burned despite the chill, and sweat covered her brow. She closed her eyes and attempted to will herself into sleeping.

"Girl! Get up! You're not finished!" Owyn's voice resounded in her ears, waking her up from her half sleep.

"Owyn, come on. I'm exhausted," she pleaded.

"Nope. You've got weapons to clean." Nhiilaa stood and followed Owyn to the barracks and looked at the piles of bloody weaponry. "Our fighters have been killing each other with bloody weapons thanks to you. Now get cleaning." Owyn turned and shut the door behind him. She looked at the door, and then turned her attention back to the piles. With a defeated attitude, she began to scrub all the grit and blood off of the weaponry as she thought of ways to get Owyn back, plans that would never come to fruition.

Hours passed and finally Owyn came to collect the weapons. He found the weaponry neatly laid in rows based upon length and type of weapon, and Nhiilaa passed out in a corner. After placing the weapons on their respected shelves, he 'nudged' her awake with the toe of his boot. She whined in protest and clutched her sides. Her eyes opened and she turned her face to glare up at him.

"What!?" she hissed.

"It's time for lights out. Go to bed," he announced coolly. Nhiilaa stared at him in utter disbelief and she struggled to stand.

"You bloody fetcher," she managed to grumble as she stalked to the dormitories. Owyn grinned evilly.

"So I've been told."

"I hope you go and drop dead."

"You say that to me every time we speak, and yet, it never happens."

"Well _damn_. There goes all my dreams," she commented.

"Dreams are for the weak. All you need is strength and power and maybe you won't get your throat cut."

"Your vote of confidence is _so_ reassuring, Owyn."

"I try."


	4. The Gray Prince

Cheers erupted from the stands of the Arena as the Gray Prince parried yet another swipe of his combatant's blade. He seemed… bored. He was toying with his prey, a mere girl barely of seventeen. She had been thrown into the ring on her quest for fame and glory, but those reasons for fighting seemed long and distant now. All she could think of right now was how to parry the swings coming from the orc, who was now on the offensive. The only thought on her mind was of survival. Strength seeped from her body and seemed to be feeding Agronak's fury and power. It was almost as if the sight of her bloodshed was the source of his raw skill with the blade. She swung in an attempt to turn the tides of battle in her favor. The Gray Prince smirked and parried the edge of her sword with grace. The recoil caught her helm and exposed lips, splitting it in two. She let out a cry of agony as she tasted the blood on her tongue and blinked back her tears, knowing fully well that the second she allowed them to spill would be the second that her life was forfeit to the Prince's blade. Agronak seemed to have this same realization on played on it as such, and again he moved on the offensive. His patterns gained in speed, but remained graceful and meticulous. Everything fell into place, as if he had planned this from the very beginning. Every move he made was deliberate, as if he knew what she was going to do in her haphazard scuffle for life.

She let out another shriek of pain as he caught her in the wrist. Her sword fell from her grip, and she gaped at the blood flowing freely from her new wound. The Prince let out a chuckle as he took a step forward. The girl sunk to her knees and awaited her death. Agronak looked into the girl's bright blue eyes. There were no tears to be found.

With a shout, he lifted his sword to decapitate her head. As if in reply, she let out her own battle cry and summoned all the strength that remained in her body to rip a steel dagger from its resting place in her boot. He was caught off guard as she surged forward, dagger aimed for his heart. His armor deflected the attack, and it instead nicked him on an open place on his arm. Fire blazed in his eyes as he turned upon the girl, and, with an almost unseen swipe, severed the girl's hand from her wrist. The crowd, which had been shrieking the Prince's exaltations, fell into a stunned silence. The hand fell from the wrist and into the dirt, dagger still clenched in its grip. The girl let out a shriek of terror which resounded on all sides of the Arena, shattering the silence. As she looked into the Gray Prince's face, she found no iota of mercy in his yellow eyes. In panic, she threw her good arm and her stump in front of her face.

The Gray Prince took another moment to chuckle, almost demonically this time. He seemed to be a man possessed. The crowd, once more enraptured, slid forward in their seats, straining to see the fate of the poor girl. Silence was once more destroyed by her muffled sobs, only to be shortly returned as the Gray Prince hit her with the flat of his blade. This sent her sprawling on the ground, and she laid there, knowing that she was defeated. An odd feeling came over the Prince, one he had many times before every kill. It was as if a voice awoke inside him and whispered, '_I must feed_,' though not in those many words. He wanted nothing more than to end this young woman's pitiful existence. So he did. He severed her head from her neck. It hit the ground with a sickening sound, and Agronak removed the helm. The girl's face was forever frozen in fear, tear-stained cheeks attracting the dirt from the ground onto the dead flesh. The crowd let out a cry of approval, and The Gray Prince waved to his fans and returned to the Bloodworks.

--

_Two young eyes peered at the Gray Prince from the stands of the blue team's fans. They belonged to a girl, almost eight-years-old._

"_Papa, the other man… he's just sleeping right?" she asked her father. Ingar looked uncomfortable and glanced at his wife for help._

"_Of course, Nhiilaa. He's just napping," Hjotra said loudly, glaring at her husband. He shrugged._

'_How was I supposed to know they actually killed each other? I thought it was all for show!' he whispered into her ear. The girl looked up at her mother._

"_I want to be just like him when I grow up," she said, crossing her arms._

"_The Gray Prince, Ijorta?"_

"_No, Papa, the sleeping man! Then I could take a nap whenever I want and people would cheer at me for doing it! All Momma does is tell me to wake up and study harder! I don't like to study. It makes my head hurt." Nhiilaa pursed her lips as she looked at her mother defiantly. Hjotra frowned in return._

_--_

About an hour after the fight, Nhiilaa walked onto the battlefield with a sackcloth sheet. Normally it didn't bother her when she had to clean up the bodies, especially since she had been the cause of some of them. This time, however, she had tears in her eyes as she rolled the torso of the corpse onto the sheet. The dead girl's name was Perinea Andris, a Breton who'd come from a large family. She had been born right here in the City, a middle child who often went to the Arena to hide from her brothers and sisters while playing games of hide-and-seek. Her family lived on the Waterfront, and she'd taken up jobs with the blue team cleaning the Bloodworks in order to help with the finances. They'd been doing a bit better once she decided to start fighting in the Arena, and had figured that she would have defeated the Gray Prince. Her family had such high confidence in her that once she won, they were going to move out to Anvil. Nhiilaa had arranged for her father's business partner to hire the sons as dockhands. Everything hinged on that one battle though, and the Prince had been looking a little weak lately. Out of shape. Nhiilaa had no idea what she was going to tell Perinea's mother.

She picked up Perinea's head and hand and laid them next to the rest of the corpse on the sheet. After bundling it tightly shut with thick ropes, she carefully took the mass into her arms, cradling it as if it were a child. She looked to the stands and noticed the Emperor, Uriel Septim VII, sitting in an expensive seat. This was not much of a shock; Agronak hadn't fought a bout in a month, and the Gray Prince's battles attracted the most attention. They tended to be the bloodiest, most interesting battles and spectators from all over Cyrodiil attending just one of his matches. However, it was an hour after the fight, and the Emperor hadn't left. He was seated, in somewhat of a trance, sipping his wine, it appeared. What bothered her is that it seemed that he was staring at _her_. She looked around; several other workers were busily turning the dirt with shovels, making the blood pools less visible and still more were picking up weapons. All she was doing was removing the corpse.

Nhiilaa shrugged and walked towards the entrance to the Bloodworks. She would have to cremate the body and hand Perinea's mother the ashes herself. Perinea's family would have had no idea that she had been killed, since they were most likely working down at the docks.

--

"_You're new here, aren't you?" A gruff voice had spoken behind the young Nord, causing her to jump in fright. She turned to face an orc, but he had impossibly pale skin. In fear, she nodded, making a tiny squeak. The orc let out a booming laugh and bent down closer to the young girl._

"_Take my advice, Nord. Don't make any friends. You never know when they're gonna get killed," he said with a wink. Tears welled in the girl's eyes and she sniffled an affirmative. Bucket in hand, she dashed off to go take care of whatever chore she had this morning. An Altmer woman appeared behind the orc and frowned disapprovingly._

"_That was just cruel, Agronak. She's just a kid," she said, crossing her arms and leaning on a nearby wall._

"_It's the truth. Hell, if she ever starts fighting she'll probably have to kill 'em herself."_

"_Well now she probably won't even fight. Gods know we need all the fighters we can get."_

"_The kid would never last two battles. It woulda been better if'n she never came here," a Dunmer in the corner whispered. Agronak and the Altmer nodded, knowing it was true. The Bloodworks were no place for a child._

_--_

Nhiilaa tossed Perinea's corpse into the furnace. The blaze took to it immediately, nearly scorching her hands in the process. She yanked them back with a yelp. No tears came now; they seemed to have been singed in the tear ducts before they could be fully formed. After the remains had been burned completely, and the fire had died down, she swept the ashes into a pewter urn. Since the two had been so close, the urn was worth the expense. She pressed the lid down tight onto it and tucked it into a makeshift bag made from one of Perinea's tunics. Owyn glanced upwards as Nhiilaa made her way toward the door to the City, and nodded in seeing the bundle under her arm. He knew that it had to be done, if not more for Perinea's family than for Nhiilaa herself.

She stepped out into the street to be greeted by the cold night of the City. The icy wind on her skin was refreshing, and she was glad for the stark contrast than the hot, muggy climate of the Bloodworks. The night was quiet, the silence only being broken by her muffled footsteps on the stonework. Beggars did what they did best, scrounging for alms pitifully. She kept her head down, her heart secretly going out to them, but keeping a stiff face. Her pace quickened as she began to job down to the docks toward the Waterfront, almost dropping her bundle a few times on the way. Soon, even the muffled footsteps gave way to the sounds of children crying of hunger in the shacks nestled on the bank of the Rumare. The Garden of Daraloth seemed to glow with the torchlight from Armand Cristophe's torch, new Thieves' Guild recruits with their eyes gleaming, awaiting their chance to join the ranks of the infamous guild.

Finally she arrived at the shack of the Andris family. This particular shack was a tad different from all the rest, in it that it was one of the shabbier looking ones. In places the thatched roof would cave in, the cheap wooden walls seemed to be rotting in others. The door was slightly off its hinge, and it tilted at an odd angle, exposing the light and sounds from within the shack. If one knocked too hard, it was quite possible that the entire shack would crumble, crushing the inhabitants in its wake. Fearing this, she tapped on the door frame just enough to be heard above the laughter coming from inside. A moment later, a woman with a haggard face opened the door. Her face was alight with a smile not only on her lips, but in her weary brown eyes. Nhiilaa held the bundle out for the woman to take it. The woman took it with a confused look and beckoned her inside. Nhiilaa ducked under the frame and stepped in after her, taking a place on a crate sitting next to another crate which served as the table. The inside of the shack was sparse, a few bedrolls tucked in the corner next to the shabby stone fireplace. Four more people, three men and a woman, sat on the floor in front of it, laughing jovially. They all had the same hair and eyes of Perinea's mother, but theirs' were not worn and tired. They were all young, ranging from fifteen to twenty-three, but it was obvious that they'd seen their share of pain from the way they sat, and the way they carried themselves. The eldest child, a man, took the still-wrapped urn from his mother's hands and unraveled the rope holding it in place, revealing the gleaming surface. His face fell as he lifted the urn, appraising its approximate weight. The others strained to see what it was in the dim light, and he held it toward the fire. Now the light bounced off the surface of the urn, casting it instead into their eyes. Five pairs of eerily similar eyes cast their gaze to Nhiilaa, who shifted uncomfortably where she sat. A girl of about fifteen lifted the lid, and her mother let out a horrified shriek. It resounded through the entire Waterfront, and the air seemed to lament with her.

Nhiilaa lowered her eyes in an attempt to hide her shame. The mother began to weep, and she took that as her cue to leave. All but one pair of the eyes stared back at her in complete agony, and that one pair, belonging to the son, looked up at her in utter contempt. He shook with rage, and it radiated from every pore on him. Instinctively, she put a hand defensively where she wore a dagger at her belt. His lips formed curses and shouts, but at that moment her senses were lost to her. She rushed out of the shack, tears flowing from her own eyes and down her cheeks.

--

_Tears moistened a pair of yellow eyes as the owner touched a pale hand to the face of his opponent. Carefully, that same hand lifted off the helm worn on the corpse's head. The face was that of a would-be beautiful Altmer woman. Cuts and burns marred her features, and her chestnut-brown hair was in a disarray. The tears that had formed in his eyes rolled down Agronak's cheeks as he used two fingers to shut the woman's emerald green eyes, which in life had blazed with unstoppable fire, but in death stared back at him like two glossy stones._

_A blanket was then placed gently over the Altmer's face. The Gray Prince looked up into the face of a Nord girl, now fifteen. She held out a hand, which he took, and helped him to his feet._

" ' _Don't make any friends. You never know when they're gonna get killed.' Isn't that what you told me?" she said as gently as she could._

"_Sometimes it just can't be helped," he whispered, lifting the corpse into his arms. He breathed in deeply, his breath breaking with another sob._

"_Sometimes it's just worth the pain."_

_--_

She ran until it felt as if her lungs would collapse. A sharp pain erupted in her knees and wrists, and she came to the realization that she had fallen. Blood gently flowed from her knees and onto the pavement, but she didn't care. Her lungs were on fire from running, and her throat burned with the pain. Breath came out short and in broken, painful sobs. She laid her head on the stones and begged internally for death, for some merciful killer somewhere to find her in the dank alley and slit her throat and take her satchel of gold. Nothing mattered now. Footsteps echoed throughout the alley. They were metallic, and she figured either it was some City guard or some heavily armed mercenary. She hoped it was the latter.

"Sometimes it's just worth the pain, isn't it, Nhiilaa?" A voice, gentle and broken asked her. She lifted her head and saw it was Agronak, her friend's killer.

"How could you…" she whispered, her voice as broken as her heart. All her shame and sorrow morphed into pure fury and rage. She shook as she stood, fire vehemently pouring from her eyes.

"How could you?!" she screamed, as she pulled her dagger loose from her belt and lunged for Agronak's throat.


	5. Masser's Curse

_Author's Note: Honestly, I think this chapter kind of sucks. I'll probably rewrite it later, but I didn't want to leave the last chapter at the ending that I did._

_--_

Fortunately enough for Agronak, tears were obscuring her eyes to such an extent that she completely missed him. He sidestepped her attempt with grace, leaving her to tumble onto her knees once more, further bloodying the stones. She pulled herself up with as much dignity as she could muster and turned to face him. Her face was bloodied from injuries sustained in her fall, and a cut from where her dagger had nicked her had slightly split her lips. She touched the blood gingerly then wiped it onto her tunic, once more pointing the dagger in Agronak's direction. Violent fury and power surged through her body, and despite her legs threatening to give way, she felt strong, exhilarated even.

"You bastard! You killed her!" she spat, her voice trembling with rage.

"Nhiilaa, she challenged me. I had no choice." And it was true enough. It was his duty as the Grand Champion to take on all challenges to his position. "It's not like I wanted to kill her!" Her eyes sparked with an inner fire, face contorting into a snarl.

"You're a bloody, fetching liar. I saw you as you slaughtered her. I saw the look in your eyes! You _wanted_ her to die!" The dagger sparkled dangerously in the moonlight, calling for vengeance. "You wanted her dead, you… you… half-blooded bastard!" At this, she took a step forward, using the dagger as a pointer. She was almost within range to strike, the tip of the blade nearly scratching the surface of his collar bone.

"I wish you would just die!" she whispered as she moved to embed the dagger into the side of his throat. Nimbly, he caught her wrist and bent it backwards. With a cry, the dagger clattered to the ground at her feet. A sob broke from deep inside her lungs, and tears spilled from her eyes once more. Agronak released her wrist and pushed her away from him gently. She tripped and fell backwards, landing with a thud on her rear. Pitifully she sat there, like a broken doll, arms at her sides and dagger within reach. He picked up the dagger in his left hand, and with his right, he helped her to her feet. She walked behind him in a trance like state, tears still flowing from her eyes and merging with the blood from her numerous scrapes and cuts. Eventually he led her to the Bloodworks, where Owyn took her hand and glared at Agronak.

"For Gods sake, Agronak, she's just a kid!" Owyn whispered harshly.

"Kids don't belong in the Bloodworks, Owyn," the Gray Prince said simply, turning to train for his next battle. Owyn spared a last angry glance at Agronak before turning to Nhiilaa. She had stopped crying, the trails of her tears drying to her cheeks, and blood caking to the front of her tunic and chin. He led her to the basin where she stared into the water as he took a cool rag and wiped her face. All she did was stare at him with blank, empty eyes, no longer filled with the fire that consumed her before.

"Owyn," she muttered, her voice cracking slightly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know," he whispered sadly. She turned away from him and began to walk toward the dormitories, not even sparing a glance back at Owyn. "I know you are, kid."

Nhiilaa let out a heavy sigh and laid herself down on her mat. From underneath her pillow, she pulled out Lord Lovidicus' journal, the journal of Agronak's father. She flipped to a page randomly.

'_Joy and exaltation! She is with child! My beloved Luktuv is carrying my child! The midwives predict a boy, and we have already settled on the name Agronak. In truth, I never realized such miracles were even possible, but the Divines have granted us their blessing, and so shall it be. I must wonder, of course, if my dear child will share in my Dark Gift. Only time will tell.' _If only his father knew what his son was, how similar the looks in their eyes were. Darkly she stared at the page in question. 'All the bloodlust of a vampire, but none of the fangs,' she thought. Her own inner voice sounded far away, distant. It wasn't much of a gift, just a simple curse. 'I should tell him,' she thought, gaining strength slowly. It was such a simple statement. She took a look out of the small opening that served as a window, gazing into the heavens. It appeared that Masser, in all its crimson glory, was full tonight, bathing the Arena in a gentle redish glow. An ill omen, according to her mother.

"_The most murders occur when Masser is full, I swear it,"_ she had once overheard her mother telling another Mages Guild associate. From then on, Nhiilaa had taken to hiding under her bed from murderers when she noticed that Masser was full at night. Her father would awaken to find her sleeping under her bed, where he would pick her up and lay her in her bed and tuck her in. 'Masser has taken another life tonight,' she thought grimly. She slipped her blade under her pillow and closed her eyes, allowing sleep to take her.

--

_Nhiilaa sat at the table in her family's Falkwreath home quietly while her mother prepared dinner. She was using a very large and frankly frightening looking knife to cut lamb shanks into chunks for the stew. Ingar had gone off with his company to delve into a recently discovered ruin and loot it of anything of particular interest, especially anything Ayleid. Hjotra was absolutely fascinated by old Ayleid things. In fact, the whole house was cluttered with Ayleid 'artifacts', or rather, things people said were artifacts, but weren't even from the same time period. Hjotra glanced up at a medallion hanging from a hook above her head, thinking a tad angrily of how someone had told her that her daughter's name was an old Ayleid royal's name, only to discover that to the contrary, it wasn't even a real name at all._

"_Bloody fetcher!" she swore angrily, as she had just cut a bit of the top of her finger. Nhiilaa gasped and pointed at her mother. Blood flowed freely from her finger, contaminating all the piece of lamb. Hjotra slammed the knife, point first, into the block of wood she had been cutting on. She wrapped her apron tightly around the wound an glanced at the window. The snow covered landscape was basking in Masser's bloody beams._

_--_

That morning she awoke slowly, rubbing the sleep dust from her eyes. She had slept in her clothing, the blood causing it to stick to her skin at places. Disgustedly she changed into her spare tunic and tossed the one she had been wearing into the basin to soak. With luck, she would be able to at least remove a small portion of the stain. At her belt, she buckled her sword, slipping her dagger into her boot. She touched her hair gingerly, grateful that no blood had matted it to her skull. Fondly she pulled it into the way her mother used to do it, two tight, blonde braids starting at the sides and meeting in a single ponytail at the base of her skull. Her legs still wobbled, which was to be expected from the amount of running and crying she had done the night before, but they were servicable enough. Walking carefully and slowly, a bit in a daze, she made her way toward the common area of the Bloodworks, where a bowl of whatever gruel was being served this morning along with a wooden spoon was awaiting her at the rickety old table. She took her place and ate silently, closing her eyes and listening to the beat of the Prince's sword hitting the wooden target with a sickening thump.

"Are you alright?" Her eyes snapped open from their trance. The voice belonged to Owyn, who had sat across from her, a deep look of concern playing across his features.

"Well enough, I suppose," her voice labored into usage. Her throat was dry from the tears. Owyn handed her a mug of cool water, a rarity in the Bloodworks. She took it gratefully and took a deep draught.

"If you aren't, you could always take some time—"

"I said I'm alright, Owyn. I just… can't be here right now," she said, feigning strength.

"Where the hell would you go?"

"… I don't know." Owyn frowned deeply. She lowered her eyes, staring into her bowl of mush, as if it had all the answers. "I just need… to not be here." Their eyes met, and her lips formed around the words. "Please… Owyn," she whispered softly. The Redguard sighed deeply, knowing that those glimmering, icy aquamarine orbs pleading with him couldn't let him refuse such a simple request.

"Be back within the fortnight," was all he said before turning away from her, standing and barking orders at the trainees. Nhiilaa allowed her lips to form a half-smile, wincing as the cut threatened to reopen itself. After gulping down the last globules of gruel, she stood and began to arrange her possessions in preparation: Her spare set of clothing, a few maps of Cyrodiil and one of Skyrim, a bedroll, and a letter from her mother. Around her neck she clasped an amulet of pure sapphire entrenched within a setting of silver. It had belonged to her mother, and when she had left for the Arena meerly weeks after her death, Ingar handed the trinket to his daughter. Quickly, she crammed her possessions into her bag. On the top, she placed the journal, and on that, the dagger. She paused in reaching for her armor; it was freshly polished, and she could now see her own reflection in it. The nicks and cuts seemed less prominent now, and her eyes were no longer puffy and red. She shrugged it off and donned the armor, lifting the pack to her shoulders before taking sheild on one arm and helm in the hand of the other.

Her boots made a metallic clank on the stonework as she made her way toward the door. The beat of blade hitting wood drew nearer as she closed the gap between herself and the exit. 'Just keep walking,' she thought insecurely.

Abruptly the noise stopped, and the Gray Prince turned to stare in awe at Nhiilaa. His lips moved to speak, but she passed him by without a word. Face fallen, his gaze followed her as she opened the door and sauntered out, strength in her stride. Every step forward took great effort it seemed, and after much pain ripping through her still-beaten body, she arrived at the stable. Nhiilaa mounted Morihaus and rode out the gate and down the Gold Road, admiring the breaking daylight. She supposed that she would ride to Anvil, see her father again and inform him that he would have to hire other dockhands; Perinea's family wouldn't have the money to travel across Cyrodiil all the way to the coast. Yes, that plan seemed feasable. She turned her steed in the direction of Anvil. If Mara was indeed smiling upon her journey, she would reach Kvatch before the night fell, provided that no robbers attacked her on the way.

--

_Nhiilaa sat on the steps of her home in Falkreath, sobbing. Hjotra was attempting to calm her down as Ingar ended his ascent of the hill in front of the house._

"_What's with her?" he asked, his voice booming with a chuckle. Hjotra frowned and stood._

"_A boy killed a stray dog that she had been feeding in secret with a stone today. The girl is heartbroken," she said worriedly. Ingar frowned in return and bent next to his daughter._

"_Ijorta, listen up girl." Nhiilaa looked into her father's face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Buck up. There are plenty of other dogs that need your attention. Besides, if you cry over every dead dog you'll be spendin' your entire life sobbing over something you can't control. Did Papa raise a little girl who cries over nothing?"_

"_N-no Papa," she mumbled, attempting to control the twin streams running from her eyes._

"_That's my girl, Ijorta," he said, taking his daughter into a gruff hug._

--

Nhiilaa thought of the irony of the situation. She supposed that she had always been a bit weepy, especially after the death of that dog. In her defense, she reasoned, it was a _very_ cute dog. She imagined what her father would say in this situation. Probably something along the lines of, _"Buck up, Nhiilaa. One death isn't the end of everything, so pull yourself together, you silly girl. That's your mother's fault right there. The whole lot of that family are weepy-eyed whiners for the most part." _And it was true; her mother cried over _everything_ for the majority of Nhiilaa's childhood, from what she could remember. However, unlike Nhiila, she did it in private, when she thought that no one, especially her daughter and husband could see her. But it was painfully obvious; even the beggars could see it.

Masser and Secunda were just barely rising as Nhiilaa stabled her horse outside of Kvatch. The twin moons shone brightly, even amongst the twilight. In her mind, she listened to the words of her mother's voice, quoting a book that she had read to Nhiilaa as a child for many years while her father was away, crawling through some abandoned fort for hidden treasures.

"_I will not go into the varying accounts of what happened at Adamantine Tower, nor will I relate the War of Manifest Metaphors that rendered those stories unable to support most qualities of what is commonly known as "narrative." We all have our favorite Lorkhan story and our favorite Lorkhan motivation for the creation of Nirn and our favorite story of what happened to His Heart. But the Theory of the Lunar Lorkhan is of special note._

_In short, the Moons were and are the two halves of Lorkhan's 'flesh-divinity'. Like the rest of the Gods, Lorkhan was a plane that participated in the Great Construction... except where the Eight lent portions of their heavenly bodies to create the mortal plane, Lorkhan's was cracked asunder and his divine spark fell to Nirn as a shooting star "to impregnate it with the measure of its existence and a reasonable amount of selfishness."_

_Masser and Secunda therefore are the personifications of the dichotomy-- the "Cloven Duality," according to Artaeum-- that Lorkhan legends often rail against: ideas of the anima/animus, good/evil, being/nothingness, the poetry of the body, throat, and moan/silence-as-the-abortive, and so on -- set in the night sky as Lorkhan's constant reminder to his mortal issue of their duty._

_Followers of this theory hold that all other "Heart Stories" are mythical degradations of the true origin of the moons (and it needn't be said that they observe the "hollow crescent theory" as well)."_

It was a book that, over the years, she had memorized by heart from just hearing her mother speak the words so often. It was from a tome by Fal Droon, entitled _The Lunar Lorkhan_. Her mother had been extraordinarily interested by Dwemer orrories, a partial reason for the family's move to Cyrodiil. She was heartbroken when she learned that the Imperial City's orrorey had fallen into such shameful disrepair.

--

"_It's a disgrace! How could anyone allow for such an amazing relic and piece of machinery descend into such… such a horrific state! How that idiot Bothiel can call herself a respected member of the guild is beyond me!" Hjotra once shouted, filling their Anvil home with echoes and curses galore. Ingar chuckled. The Mages Guild, he decided long ago, was one of those things that it was better for everyone involved if he just kept his mouth shut._

_--_

All was quiet in Kvatch, as it should be, Nhiilaa decided. She paid for a room at the inn and flopped into her bed, exhausted. After shoving her pack and armor to ther floor, she closed her eyes. For the first time that day, she felt at peace, and free. Recalling her father's words from long ago, there were 'plenty of other dogs that needed her attention.' She had come to a realization, and sighed lightly.

"I don't hate him." If she had, she would have screamed the truth in the street last night; that he was the spawn of an accursed hellion, and by her blade his own father perished in a manner much like he ended Perinea's life. Now that she thought about it, the irony of the situation was almost laughable. And with this thought, she attempted to formulate the words on how to break the news of his heritage to him. How she would tell her _friend_ that the source of all his power was one of the greatest evils imaginable. With a sigh she pulled out the journal, re-reading it for the umpteenth time.

"Well, Agronak, it turns out I did find your father's journal. You're sort of half a vampire and what not, isn't that pleasant? ... Bloody damn that's pathetic," she thought aloud as she closed her eyes.


	6. The Dream

_Dank, filthy smelling air filled Nhiilaa's nostrils as she breathed in deeply. The noxious fumes left her with an ill feeling, and yet she pressed onward. With only dim candles illuminating her path, she felt lost. She was in some sort of tunnel, one deep under the surface. The only sounds were the metallic thud of her own boots, and the echoing drip of source of water, far off. The light of the candles were reflected in the water on the ground, giving the whole cavern a damp feeling. Her breath condensed in front of her; the very air seemed to form in her lungs as sheets of ice. In her hand was her precious blade, but for some reason it felt…heavy, as if it were made of lead in the place of steel. Demonically red eyes peered at her while her back was turned, and she could feel them following her every movement. In the darkness, she could barely make out a rotting door about fifteen yards away. Her pulse quickened, along with her pace. As the gap between herself and the door closed, light appeared from beyond the door. Salvation. Her walk broke into a full on run, arms swinging wildly at her sides and boots making sickeningly loud thuds on the ground. She reached for the door, throwing all her weight into it. It shattered open, splinters catching onto the exposed flesh of her face and neck._

_Nhiilaa cast her gaze towards the center of the room. It was more of a giant cavern, the ground splitting in the middle to form a gaping chasm. A wooden bridge crossed the abyss, and on the other side, enclosed within a circle of light, a ladder stood at the far end of the cavern and extended to the surface above. She picked herself up cautiously and grinned, thinking that she would be out of here soon. A bit too quickly, she began to cross the bridge. Once or twice she almost lost her footing, causing small chunks of the bridge to scatter and clamor down into the chasm. Now would not be a good time to fall, she told herself, as she continued on her path. Thankfully, her foot touched the solid ground on the other side, and she looked back out of curiosity. Nothing had followed her, nor would it be able to, for now there was no bridge; the chasm itself had swallowed it up hungrily. A pang of worry resounded throughout her body._

"_Well, that can't be good," she thought aloud, her voice echoing as she stared down into the black depth._

"_It's not," a voice, a male's, stated maliciously. She turned, sword in hand, to face a pair of red eyes glaring into her own. A frightened gasp escaped from her lips, and she took a step backward, sending a shower of rocks into the abyss. The figure chuckled and stepped backward into the light. Whoever it was, he was tall, with a heavy build. He was cloaked in a black robe that almost seemed to absorb the light in its vile vacuum. All that could be seen from beneath the hood were sharp, yellowed teeth curving into a twisted smirk, one of devilish proportions._

"_It's not good at all," the voice said again. Every word was laced with malice, and each one chilled her to the bone even further. She raised her shield defensively and mustered as much courage as she possibly could._

"_W-who are you?!" she demanded, voice dripping with fear._

"_I'm hurt, Nhiilaa. You mean you don't even recognize a close friend?" The figure purred. As he pulled his hood from atop his head, her breath fell short._

"_Agronak?" she whispered in awe. The orc let out a booming laugh. "No… you're not my friend! You're not…"_

"_Aren't I?" Nhiilaa shook her head. This was not Agronak, not this… creature. This was the Gray Prince, yes, but not her dear friend. The Prince straightened, and in all his hellish glory, shrugged the robe to the floor. In place of the standard Arena Champion's raiment, he wore the armor of the daedra, the armor of nightmares and hellions alike. It was the armor that her mother had shown her pictures of as a child in books from the great libraries of the Mages Guild. The blade in his hand was also of daedric craft; it pulsed with the blood of a thousand sacrifices, forged within the heart of darkness and imbued with demonic power. He smirked as he held it towards her, and she now saw that his transformation was complete. A bloodthirsty grin revealed fangs which glimmered softly in the light._

_With his free hand, he reached toward her. The glove adorning his hand seared her flesh, steam rising from the new wounds. A scream tore from her lungs as she attempted to push him away, but every where her skin made contact with the armor, fresh welts sprung up. He grasped her by the throat, and blood poured from it. Madness burned in his eyes as he took his blade and pressed it to her throat gently._

"_Don't worry," he crooned in her ear. "Death isn't so bad." Blood flecked her lips as he drew it across her tender flesh, and the crimson fluid flowed in a river, splattering onto the ground in a pool, just as the water had done._

_With it, the illumination of the cavern bled scarlet. Nhiilaa's now-dead eyes stared into the heavens; the bloody moon was full._

_--_

She awoke with a start, cold sweat moistening her brow. Sleep had not been merciful to her at night. Vaermina herself seemed to be sending her blackest, most scarring dreams into Nhiilaa's subconscious, causing her sleep to be plagued with restlessness and torment. As she tossed and turned throughout the night, Masser and Secunda danced in the sky, in an endless race of grace and beauty to greet the rising dawn. But it was morning, the birds sang quietly from some rather small trees outside of her window. With a groan, she pulled her hand to her eyes in a feeble attempt to shade them from the brilliant beams. She pulled the curtains shut, dimming the room a bit. Once her eyes had adjusted to the light, she pulled herself out of bed grudgingly and dressed. After quickly paying for a light meal to eat on the road and shoving it into her pack, she left the city of Kvatch and mounted her horse, galloping at full speed to Anvil. She hoped to reach the city by nightfall, especially if she wanted to completely glaze over Skingrad.

"There is no way in hell that I'm spending another night there," she muttered, shuddering at the thought of having to deal with Glarthir again.

--

"_Momma?"_

"_Yes, Nhiilaa?"_

"_What's a barbarian?"_

"_An uncouth person. They generally are nomadic peoples and have a limited moral code, why?"_

"_Suurootan said that no one likes Nords because we're all crazy barbarians."_

"_Suurootan? That little Altmer boy?"_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_Well, Nhiilaa, Nords are __**not**__ barbarians, and we're certainly not crazy."_

"_Uncle Newheim's crazy."_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"_He says that his flagon can keep his drinks cold, but it's just made out of wood. Wood's not cold." Hjotra laughed at her daughter's innocence, causing her to become flustered and red in the face._

"_It's true! Everyone knows that wood's not cold!" Nhiilaa made a face and stuck her tongue out at her mother. A face of an Altmer boy popped in through the open window._

"_Nhiilaa's a barbarian! Nhiilaa's a barbarian!" he sing-songed. He was joined by a chorus of other local children._

"_I am not!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, running out the door. Squeals of surprise and delight followed a loud 'thump' on the side of the house. Hjotra rushed out of the door to see the young Altmer boy shoved up against the wall by her daughter, a semi-circle of children giggling at his misfortune._

"_Nhiilaa Ijorta, you leave him alone," her mother scolded. Nhiilaa's face fell as she lowered her arms. As Suurootan ran to leave, he stuck his tongue out at her. His ankle was caught by her outstretched foot, and he crashed face-first into the snowy bank. Aghast, her mother rushed to help the young boy up. She glared at her daughter, who simply just crossed her arms and muttered a quiet, "Serves him right." An eruption of laughter by the children followed Nhiilaa as she trudged inside the house._

"_I'm not a barbarian," she pouted. "And I'm CERTAINLY not crazy."_

_--_

It was late in the night when Nhiilaa finally reached the gates of Anvil after stabling her horse, far too late to get a room at the inn. No matter, hopefully her father would still be up at this hour, though she doubted it. Either way, she still had the key to the house and would just sneak quietly into her old bed. That is, if it was still there.

She approached the house and knocked on the door loudly. No answer. Again, she knocked even louder this time. Still, there was no answer. Straining to look at her father's window, she found that there was no light. Rummaging through her bags, she discovered that she had most likely left her key to the house back at the Bloodworks, or worse, had given it to her father when she left. Damn it all. She sat down on the front porch and waited for her father to, hopefully, come downstairs for a mug of water and see her through the window.

_--_

_The earth seemed to be stained a crimson red, the stands of the Arena filled with daedra. As for herself, she stood in the center of the field, a bloody sword in hand and a mangled corpse at her feet. The corpse wore no helm; the glassy, yellow eyes of Agronak stared up at her. His face was covered in blood and dirt along with his armor. Nhiilaa's senses came back to her with evil cheering, no, hissing, erupted from the stands. The blood sacrifice had been fulfilled._

_--_

"What in Ysmir's name are you doing on my porch!?" An obscenely loud voice startled her awake. With a shout, she tipped over, falling onto her face.

"Good morning, Papa," she mumbled from the ground. A metallic sound emitted from her armor as she turned on the stones to look up into the face of her father. It was not pleased. He held out a hand to help her up, which she took.

"Care to explain why you're sleeping on my porch?"

"Lost my key."

"You could've knocked."

"I knocked loud enough to wake the dead, old man."

"Is that any way to speak to your father?"

"When he locks his only daughter outside, in the cold, all night, then yes."

"It wasn't that cold."

"It's a figure of speech. I'm hungry, can I come in?"

"By all means." He stepped out of the way, allowing her to enter the house. A smell of freshly baked bread greeted her at the door. That was odd; her father didn't bake. She shrugged it off and sat at the table in the kitchen, ironically in the same place she had sat only days ago. At her feet she laid her pack on the floor and took a hunk of the bread sitting on a platter on the table, and Ingar handed her a large bowl filled to the brim with a lamb broth. Hungrily, she muttered thanks and dug into her food.

"I thought you weren't going to be in Anvil for a while?" Ingar asked as soon as she had finished inhaling the heavenly meal.

"Changed my mind," was all the explanation she offered.

"I've been meanin' to ask… why were you here the last time?" Nhiilaa sighed and put down her spoon. She had never explained to her father why she had come back to Anvil after all these years. Sure, he had seen her, but that was when he took the journey to the City himself to watch her early bouts.

"I was… looking for something for a friend of mine at the Arena. A journal, I suppose. He had just asked me to find something to confirm the suspicions of his parentage." Ingar raised an eyebrow at the words "he" and "his". Seeing this, she shook her head. "No, it's nothing like that. He's just a friend. Agronak. You've met him?"

"The pale orc chap?"

"That's the one."

"Don't the women eat their mates or whatever? That's where his damn father went." A glare from his daughter silenced him; for a Nord who had gotten comments like 'barbarian' and 'half-wit' from the moment he had stepped on Cyrodiilic land, he was awfully rude when it came to the other races of Cyrodiil. Not like Nhiilaa was much better, but she at least kept these thoughts to herself.

"Nah, turns out he's a half-er. Father was a Imperial, I think."

"And how do you know that?"

"I had to kill 'im."

"What? Was he an Arena combatant or something?" She shook her head again and looked around suspiciously. Quickly, she leaned in and asked, "Can you keep your mouth shut about this?" He nodded. "His father… was a vampire."

"A bloody _vampire_?" Ingar's mouth fell agape. Of course he'd heard the legends of vampires roaming the halls of old forts around the place, but he'd never placed much stock into them. If his daughter had actually killed one of the blasted leaches, well…

"The guy'd been locked in his private quarters by Agronak's mum before he was born, even. He hadn't fed in about… twenty-five years, I suppose. If he'da fed before he attacked me, I'd be dead." The last remark struck an angry nerve in Ingar. His face flushed a tad, and his grip on his mug tightened.

"How do you know this?"

"He left a journal," she said. She reached into her pack and pulled out the journal. He took it quickly and skimmed the pages. After a few moments of reading, Ingar looked up at his daughter.

"What the hell is this? A crappy romance novel?" he boomed. Nhiilaa laughed. It seemed like an eternity since she had last laughed.

It was a good feeling.


	7. Fire with Fire

_Author's Note: Obviously I like memory sequences :D_

_--_

"Gods above, you weren't kidding," Ingar said, as a look of both horror and shock crossed his face. Nhiilaa looked triumphantly at her father.

"You thought I was _kidding_?"

"Well, you can't blame an old man for being skeptical. I've seen a lot of things in a lot of years, Nhiilaa, and none of them have involved honest-to-god vampires. People who've thought they were the damn bloodsuckers, sure, but _real_ vampires? Never. Always thought they were the stuff of legends, myself. And you say _you _killed it?" He laughed uncomfortably, attempting to make a joke of the situation. She let out a deep sigh and wondered why he always had to do this to her. Ever since her mother died, Ingar had never been serious about a single thing, let alone those that mattered most.

"I'm not bad with a blade anymore, Papa. But to be fair, he was extremely weak with hunger. Even then, I could have been killed. After breakfast I planned to visit Azzan and train a bit down at the guild. I escaped too close for comfort, and I don't want it to happen again," she said slowly, a serious look adorned her face. Her father frowned deeply. Quickly she interrupted him as he opened his mouth to speak. "I know you don't like him, Papa, but he's good with a sword and can at the very least direct me in the direction of a good trainer. Besides, he's a friend. I don't know why you hate him so much."

"I never said I hated the boy. I just don't trust him is all."

"Whatever you say, Papa," and with that, she rose from the table. After sighing almost disbelievingly, he too followed suit and began to walk her out the door.

"You're not still using that old steel sword, are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes, why?"

"It's ancient! You need a good blade, girl. S'time you had a REAL sword," he said with a devilish smile and a certain gleam in his eye. One of her eyebrows involuntarily rose, giving her a quizzical look. The old man dashed up the stairs and after a few moments, she followed him to the attic. Before she could ascend the ladder, however, her father returned, a bundle underneath one arm nearly hitting her as he made his way down. With a rather mischievous look in his eyes, he presented the bundle of white linen cloth to her, muttering, "Here, take this!" The cording that held the fine cloth around whatever was inside was of fine golden silk. As she untied it, she marveled at the beauty of it; it was much finer than the coarse horse-hair ropes that were used in the Bloodworks. She pushed the corners of the cloth away gently, afraid that she might damage whatever lay beneath. A gasp escaped her lips; inside was a beautifully crafted silver blade in a polished leather sheath. Silver filigree wrapped delicately around the sheath in a sophisticated pattern, and it caught the light and sent glimmering sparkles dancing across the stone walls. The sword slipped from its scabbard easily, and she saw that Nordic runes of protection, courage, and power had been engraved masterfully into the blade. It was a magnificent sword. It was light enough to swing easily, but heavy enough to have plenty of power. The blade was thick enough to not break easily, along with the handle.

"Do you like it?" Ingar's voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up at him with wonder in her eyes.

"It's so… perfect. Are you sure you want to give it to me?" Doubt and longing resonated in her voice.

"My adventuring days are long over. It's served me well, and I know it'll serve you better." He smiled fondly at the sword. "It's called Arpenalatta."

"Ayleid, I assume."

"Your mother named it. Said it means '_light of nobles_'. I couldn't give a rip about what it meant, I just thought it fit."

"It does." After removing her steel sword, which now looked pathetic and wretched in comparison, she buckled Arpenalatta to her belt. It sat comfortably at her hip, and, unlike her steel sword, the sword did not look dingy next to her newly polished armor. She spun a bit and her father smiled in approval. Gruffly, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

"You'll make me proud, Nhiilaa," he muttered into her hair.

"Alright, Papa." Her voice came out in a whisper, almost childlike.

--

_Houses in Bruma were not like the houses in the rest of Cyrodiil; they were constructed so that the bedrooms were on the floor below, underneath the surface of the earth in order to conserve heat. Nhiilaa sat shamefully on her bed in her downstairs bedroom, awaiting her punishment for fighting. Hjotra had sent her immediately down the stairs as soon as she had gotten into the house. "Just you wait until your father hears about this," she had growled angrily as she led her daughter hours ago. Three hours had passed with Nhiilaa frozen fear on her bed. A loud slam of the door had broken the silence, followed by boisterous yelling from the both of them. Tears rolled softly down her cheeks; surely she thought she would be locked in the attic along with the rats and ghosts and whatever else inhabited it without food or water for weeks on end. Quietly, she slipped underneath her bed as the heavy thud of her father's footsteps descended the staircase and stopped in front of her door. It opened with an annoying and awkwardly loud squeak. All she could see from her position under the bed were Ingar's heavy leather boots that he wore while he wasn't roaming some ruin._

"_Hmm, my wife said that my daughter was in her room, but it doesn't seem as if she's here," he said loudly. Nhiilaa scooted further back underneath the bed, a little louder than she would have liked. The bed creaked loudly as Ingar sat down, squishing Nhiilaa under his weight. Involuntarily she let out a squeak, and she attempted to turn around to get out from underneath it. The weight was released, and an iron grip caught her by the ankle and pulled her out from underneath the bed. Being six-years-old, she was very light compared to some of the game that her father brought home for supper. Easily, he held her aloft by both ankles and looked at her in the eyes. Immediately she burst into hysterics._

"_Papa, I'm sorry! Please don't lock me in the attic!" she sobbed as she flailed about. With a chuckle, he laid her down on her bed softly and sat next to her. She scurried into his lap and buried her face in his fur vest, which was still a bit moist from the falling snow outside. His booming laughs resonated as he wrapped her in a warm, tight hug, and she looked up at him confusedly._

"_The attic? Who ever said anything about an attic?" he said in between laughs._

"_But…aren't I in trouble?"_

"_Oh, yes, little one, you're in a heap of trouble. But we're not going to lock you in the attic. I doubt we even have one!" Her face now expressed one of shock mixed with mild embarrassment of being laughed at. After the laughing subsided, Ingar looked at his daughter with a rather serious gaze. "Your mother's explained what happened to me, already." At that, Nhiilaa's mouth flew open in protest._

"_It was Suurootan's fault, Papa! He called me a crazy barbarian! And… and he said th-that none of the other kids would like me because I'm a barbarian!"_

"_And just when did he say that?"_

"_Yesterday and today." Her voice came out in a pitiful whine contrast to the one that had yelled at the young Altmer in anger only hours ago._

"_Did you hit him first?"_

"_Well, yes, but he deserved it!" With a heavy sigh, Ingar shook his head sadly. "He—" Nhiilaa was silenced abruptly by a finger placed on her lips. After it was taken away, her cheeks puffed up and she crossed her arms in defiance. She hated it when her father did that._

"_Listen, Ijorta. He may've deserved it, but you proved that you were a barbarian by hitting him. Don't you know that only barbarians get into fights?" he said with a regal air, straightened his back, and put a very 'sophisticated' look on his face. When he saw that her angry disposition refused to fade, he let out another sigh and relaxed. "All you did was prove his point. You're not going to make very many friends here if you go around punching them all in the gut when they say something mean."_

"_What am I supposed to do then?" she cried, frustrated. Ingar looked about, as if to make sure that his wife wasn't listening._

"_Tell 'em that Altmer are all uppity know-it-alls and that the only friends they can make are idiots so that they can feel smarter'n they actually are," he evilly commented. "Fightin' fire with fire. Any idiot can hit an Altmer and hurt 'im. That takes absolutely no skill. It takes gall and courage to get in an argument with 'em and win." The two laughed, her braids jiggling with it. Ingar took his daughter into another bear hug. "As for the matter of your punishment, your mother has suggested that an extra hour of studying be added on for two weeks." Nhiilaa let out a groan. "I disagree. A half an hour for a week should do it." It still was torture, but she would take what she could get._

"_Thank you, Papa," she muttered as she yawned loudly. With one hand Ingar patted her head, and with the other he laid her blanket over her._

"_Go to sleep, you little hatchling," he murmured as he tucked her in. At the doorway, he looked back at her. Sleep had taken her quickly, snores softly echoed through the room. Quietly, he blew out the candle that rested on a small table and shut the door._

_--_

"Alright girl, don't you be going all soft on me. Get yourself down to that damn Fighter's Guild and go train," her father's voice broke her thoughts open. A smile spread across his face as she broke away from his hug and looked him full in the eyes.

"I'll be back later, so don't lock me out again."

"If I can remember. I'm getting too old to remember most thinks you see," he said with a wink.

"You don't look a day over sixty," she teased as she walked out the door and shut it behind her. Fortunately enough, the Fighter's Guild was only a brisk walk from her father's house, and within a few minutes she was standing on the doorstep. She ignored the hails from the porters and even the fact that they began following her as if to make sure that she didn't steal anything as she walked up to Azzan's office on the third floor. After shooing the porters away with an annoyed shake of the wrist, she opened the door slowly. The Redguard was sitting at his desk, of course in steel armor that looked much like her own. Apparently he did not hear her enter, because she sat in a chair adjacent to the desk and still he did not look up from his paperwork. A muffled cough startled him enough into looking up at her.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Nhiilaa Ijorta." A smile played on his lips as he stood to shake her hand. Instead, she gave him a quick hug and returned to her seat.

"It's been a while, Azzan."

"Five years, hasn't it been?"

"You lose count in the Bloodworks."

"Oh yes, I would assume so. How is the hell-hole by the way?"

"Eh, hellish and reminds me vaguely of a hole." At this, Azzan let out a laugh that very much reminded her of her father's. He noted the blade at her hip and pointed to it.

"New blade?" he asked calmly. It was much finer than his own, a simple silver short sword.

"Yes. My father gave it to me today. Glorious, isn't it?" With a glance down at his own sword, he nodded. Her heart swelled with pride. Finally, she had something that was better than what he had.

"That it is. The question is, 'do you have the skill to match?'" A devilish smirk signified that he knew that she didn't. For a moment, her cheeks burned scarlet, and she prayed to Ysmir that he didn't notice.

"Well that's why I'm here. For training."

"What's this? The mighty Nhiilaa Ijorta needs a humble guild member's training? I thought that you Arena types were _so_ skilled at fighting. Too good for us folk," he joked.

"I've decided to grace you with my presence. Who knows, Azzan, maybe you'll learn a thing or two about _real_ fighting?" she said with a grin. "So you'll help me then?"

"You'll have to be prepared to lower yourself to our standards."

"Oh, I know. I figure I can deal with that for a while."

"Training begins at 6 AM sharp tomorrow."

"Yes'sir!" As she said this, she rose and saluted. With a chuckle she began to leave the room. At the door, Azzan stopped her.

"Hey, it's good to have you back in town," he said wholeheartedly. A smile lit up her face as she nodded and said, "It's good to be back, Azzan."


	8. Stinky Fat Head

_Author's Note: So, I know that Azzan's a Blunt trainer, but swords more hardcore. Plus, I needed to change it to fit the story :D Didn't know if his father was ever named, so I named him. And Newheim TOTALLY has children. Shhhh. I deviated from my usual style of writing a bit, so uh... don't worry if it sucks, it's not a permanent thing._

--

Exactly two weeks passed since her departure from the Imperial City while she trained in Anvil with Azzan. The days were filled with intense training with her new blade, the nights with boisterous laughter with Uncle Newheim and her father, and occasionally one of her father's friends from the docks. The training itself was long, difficult, and monotonous, laced with derogatory comments from Azzan which made her work harder. Amazingly, the blade neither nicked nor scratched despite the repetitive clashing with Azzan's own. Nhiilaa was a quick learner, and readily adapted to whatever he threw at her, and as the lessons wore on, her skill improved.

"It's a miracle you haven't been killed yet," Azzan remarked as he lowered his sword. The sun was high overhead, and it shone in his eyes harshly. The pair had been practicing outside due to the fact that her swings, Azzan had told her snidely one day, were "wide enough to allow a whole army of small Bretons to stab her with their daggers." Such a pleasant friend, he was.

"What can I say, everyone's too stunned by my gorgeous face to fight back," she retorted, rolling her eyes in the process. Azzan turned away quickly at the comment and made quite a large show of picking up his vest from the ground next to him and putting it back on. With a shrug, she sheathed Arpenaletta and began to stride back around the building to the entrance of the Guild, leaving Azzan to whatever the hell he was doing. Looked as if he had started to investigate a pile of crates to the side of the building, but one could never be quite sure.

Instead of heading back to the Guild as originally intended, she made a bee-line toward the gate to the docks. Her father would be overseeing some business on some boat most likely, and she hadn't gotten to see the docks as of late due to the incessant training. Two birds with one stone, she had figured. The gate opened with the exact same moan as it had when she left, and for that she was glad.

--

_Sun beams were cast onto the docks as if they were rain drops and shadows played on the crystal blue water below two pairs of tiny feet, one pair belonging to Nhiilaa, now eight, the other to a young Redguard lad of eleven years. Slaughterfish darted about beneath the surface, occasionally jumping out of the water to snap at their toes and incurring the pair to shriek in laughter and draw their feet up onto the planks. The boy looked around nervously for a moment before poking her sharply in the shoulder. Quickly, she turned to snap at him, but was faced with a stock of yellow fennel flowers held in his hand toward her._

"… _I uh, picked you a flower," the boy mumbled. She made a face and swatted the flowers out of his hands and into the water. A slaughterfish raced to the surface, the flowers trapped in its outstretched maw._

"_Yuck. I hate flowers. They're too girly," she pouted. Azzan looked dejectedly into the water; his mother had scolded him for wandering around the countryside unsupervised just to look for that flower, which she had just so carelessly discarded. Tears welled in his eyes as he turned away from her._

"_Smelly girl," he muttered, just barely so that she could hear him._

"_Stinky fat-head," she retorted, thinking it was a game._

"_Ugly barbarian!" he shouted at her. Stunned from the sudden anger, all she did was glare at him and puff up her cheeks, as she often did when she was angry. They turned away from each other and resumed staring into the water at the fish._

_The awkward silence was broken by a joyous squeal of "Papa!" He looked over at where Nhiilaa had sat only moments before. Like lightning, she had run to her father, who had just departed a ship moored at the dock. She spared a glance at Azzan as Ingar lifted her effortlessly into the air. The lad glared at her, and she crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her tongue._

"_Stupid-face!" she called as her father carried her into the city, the gates groaning loudly behind them and shutting with a damning thud._

_--_

"Stupid Nord," Azzan muttered, glaring into his ale. Behind the bar, Wilbur chuckled. Kids.

--

Somewhere in Anvil, Newheim the Portly swore in the vicinity of his best friend in all of Cyrodiil and his daughter. Objects flew past their heads as Newheim searched, one nearly hitting Ingar in the face. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and spun him around to face him.

"What in the name of Ysmir are you doing, Newheim?!" Ingar yelled over Newheim's protests.

"My flagon! My daedra-be-damned flagon!" Newheim shouted back at him and returned to his mad hunt. Dodging a projectile mug filled with ale, Nhiilaa looked at her father quizzically.

"What about it, Uncle Newheim?"

"It's been stolen by some god damned bandits!"

"Why exactly are you throwing things around then?"

"To find a new flagon to hold my ale in, you silly girl!" She sighed heavily and glared at her father. With a sigh in return, he mouthed the words, "I'm sorry" to her. Newheim was in no patience to deal with her right now, which was obvious. A quick motion to the door of the house told her father that she would wait for him outside, and she quickly exited the building. Cool air greeted her, a welcome change from the stuffiness of Newheim's home. In further contrast, the air outside smelt wonderfully of salty water and… serenity even, whereas the house had smelt of sweat and ale, all together reminding her far too much of the Bloodworks. She breathed in deeply, taking in the beauty of the docks at nightfall.

Uneven, heavy footsteps broke the picturesque mood. A turn to the right, and she stared into the bloodshot eyes of Azzan. The leader of the Anvil chapter was swaying from left to right, giggling to himself over gods-knew-what. A cough stifled her own laughter as she moved to catch him before he toppled over into the water. His thanks—at least she assumed it was 'thanks'—came out slurred and more like a garble than actual speech. Her giggle broke out as she held him up.

"Azzan, are you drunk?"

"V-very," he mumbled somewhat coherently. He held up a clump of weeds to her and said, "I… pishked yoush shome fleursh." Another laugh escaped from her lips before she could stifle it, and she took the weeds and tossed them into the bay. With a little effort, she swung his arm over her shoulder.

"Let's get you back to the guild, 'Zan." Awkwardly, she dragged Azzan to the Fighter's Guild. Luckily enough, Vigdis was still awake at this hour and could open the door for her.

"What the hell happened to him?" she exclaimed with a laugh.

"Stupid idiot got stark ravin' drunk," Nhiilaa grunted as Vigdis took some of the weight on Azzan's other side. Slowly they made their way up the two flights of stairs and stood in front of the door to his quarters.

"I don't suppose he's got his key on him," Vigdis muttered, the door looming over her.

"Damned if I'm going to look." With a sigh, the other Nord reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his key. "Lucky for us you won't have to," she said with a smirk and unlocked the door. The pair reassumed their burden and entered the room. It was obsessively tidy, not a thing was misplaced. Nhiilaa scoffed at the orderliness of the room and laid Azzan on his bed. He mumbled something about fish lamps and passed out soon thereafter. Before leaving, Nhiilaa opened his desk and took out a piece of fresh parchment, and with a devilish smirk, laid it on the middle of the floor.

--

"_Look what you did, Nhiilaa!" Azzan yelled as he stared at the papers strewn all over the floor of the office of the current leader of the Fighter's Guild, Azzan's father, Roan. The Nord shrugged; her growth spurt at age nine had led her to tower over him now, a fact that he rather detested._

"_What?" her voice was laced with mockery. Azzan pointed angrily at the floor and shook in rage._

"_My father's going to be so angry with you when he comes in! He hates a mess!"_

"_So?"_

"_So?! You're going to get in so much trouble!" At another one of her shrugs, he slapped his forehead in frustration. "You've got to clean it up!"_

"_Why?" Azzan could feel himself getting angrier. Flustered, be began to clean up the papers himself while Nhiilaa sat in __**his **__father's chair reading __**his **__father's books. Roan stepped in moments later, his jaw aghast in horror at the state of his office. Immediately, she sprang to her feet and point at Azzan accusingly._

"_It's Azzan's fault!" she shouted as she ran out of the office, giggling. The older Redguard turned to his son, whose mouth had dropped in supreme shock._

"_B-but I— … NHIILAA!" he screamed in rage. Laughter bounced down the halls in a mocking response._

_The next day, Nhiilaa opened the door to her home to see Azzan glaring at her, fists clenched._

"_What the hell was that for!? Now I have to scrub the floors of the damn guild for a month!" he yelled, shaking her like a rag doll. A smirk simply played coyly across her features as she waited for him to stop._

"_Remember that little 'prank' you pulled a week ago?" The event that she was referring too involved not only himself, but another boy, Newheim's child Hogar. The two had locked the poor girl in that accursed old Dunmer woman's house, more specifically, her basement. It was then that Nhiilaa discovered that the old bat liked to keep rather large sewer rats as pets, and had spent the night curled up on top of a wine barrel. The mer had found her the next morning due to her incessant shouting. The Nord girl had repaid the favor to her cousin by telling the most grotesque girl in the city, an awful little Bosmer girl, that Hogar was madly in love with her. The girl spent the rest of the week following Hogar around town talking about marriage and children and what not._

"_But that was a week ago!" Azzan sputtered with rage._

"_Revenge knows no limits. Have fun swabbing the deck," she replied, a toothy grin showing off her newly lost tooth. How he wanted to knock another one out her mouth! A firm hand clasped onto his shoulder, and his head hung as his father led him back to the guild._

_--_

Morning broke over Azzan's face, his headache demanding that he awaken. One eye opened to spot the lone piece of parchment on the floor. With a groan, he pushed himself out of bed and stared at it.

"GODS DAMN YOU, WOMAN!" he shouted as he fell back into bed.

--

Ingar smiled as he handed his daughter her pack after she had mounted her horse.

"You're not going to tell Azzan good-bye?" No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't suppress the hint of glee from his voice.

"Nah, he's probably got one murder of a headache. Would you give him this letter, though, Papa?" she said as she handed him a letter. As he took it, he frowned; she had used his personal seal to imprint the wax.

"When you're champion, remind me to commission your own damn seal." With a laugh, she nodded.

"I'll will, Papa." She waved to her father and smiled. "I'll see you soon?" He nodded in response, waving her away. The sun caught her armor just right, and she spurred Morihaus into a canter and jumped him over the gate.

"Show-off!" her father called after her as she sped off toward the Imperial City. A few miles out from Anvil, she slowed her horse from his gallop to a trot. Morihaus whinnied in glee, causing her to giggle. 'Glad you're happy too,' she thought lightly.

--

Four rather uneventful days came and went, and Nhiilaa was back at the Bloodworks' entrance. Back to reality. The journal in her bag seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and all the weight of the severity of the situation was now back to haunt her. She was no closer to telling Agronak the truth than she had been before she had left, but at least she had decided affirmatively that she would indeed tell him. It was a step.

Dejectedly, she shoved the door open. The familiar smell of blood and grime filled her nostrils, and her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Owyn greeted her warmly, and then it was immediately to business.

"You're just in time, Nhiilaa. You've a fight tomorrow," he said gruffly. A groan escaped her lips.

"You can't be serious." Her lips formed curse words that she dared not say out loud.

"Oh, but I am."

"Well who's it against?"

"Dunno. Go get some rest, though." She opened her lips to argue, to protest that she had just gotten back, but Owyn stopped her. "It's either you fight tomorrow or you work." A moment passed as the mulled over her options. "And you'll be on vomit duty."

"I'll take the fight," she found herself immediately responding. Vomit duty, the job everyone dreaded. Cleaning the stands of all the vomit from either the heavy drunks or the squeamish was most certainly not what she wanted to return to.

"That 'a girl," he said with a smirk, patting her on the back. She grimaced as she made her way toward the dormitories.

"Nhiilaa!" A voice stopped her dead in her tracks. Fear made her blood run cold as she turned to face the man of her nightmare: The Gray Prince. He jogged to her, a look of hope in his eyes. "I'm… sorry for the way I treated you," he admitted, his eyes flicking toward the ground before he regained his composure.

"Oh, erm, it's no problem," she whispered as she stared into his yellowed eyes. No, this was Agronak, she reminded herself. He was her friend, not her enemy.

"I hate to be a bother… but have you found anything?" His voice was laced with a giddiness that was very poorly disguised. For a moment, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, Agronak looked at her, a confused air about him.

"We need to talk," was all she said.


	9. Smashing Tables

_Author's Note: This chapter was suprisingly difficult to write. It probably REALLY sucks, but I tried to put as much emotion into it as I could. Hopefully that comes across._

_--_

Two months had passed since Nhiilaa broke the news to Agronak about his heritage, exactly. She'd started keeping count after the third week of him not talking to her, instead glaring at her in the halls of the Bloodworks, a look of malice intwixt with agony. And all she could do was watch as her friend descended further into the dark abyss that was misery. Since that fateful day, if she had the energy to even awaken in the middle of the night, she could hear him scream in frustration as he beat on the poor wooden target and being to throw things around the Bloodworks, and Ysabel's angry shouts inquiring what the hell in Azura's name did he think he was doing. Not once did he give her the courtesy of responding, instead stomping off into the streets of the city doing gods-knew-what.

--

"_So? What'd you find?" Agronak's eyes filled with excitement, tears of joy practically springing out of his eyes. With a heavy heart, and a heavy sigh, she pulled out the old journal, which seemed to weigh even more than before. He took the journal into his hands and pored over it._

"_Hah! I knew it. I knew I was his son!" he murmured once or twice, interrupting the uneasy silence that had grown between them. A look of confusing spread across his face, presumably at the first mention of the "Dark Gift". In time, that was replaced by a look of extreme horror and disgusted-ness; in fact, he looked as if he were about to vomit. Involuntarily, she winced as he looked up at her, his yellow eyes borrowing into the very depths of her soul. He knew that she had read it, knew what he was._

"_My… father's a vampire? I'm the son of a monster?" he asked, his words cutting into her heart as if it were a thousand sharpened blades. With a slight nod from her, Agronak lowered his face. Without a warning, he jolted up, overturning the table at which they sat deliberately. The wood crashed into the wall, splintering and causing shrapnel to assault her face. A shriek escaped her lips as she flung up her arms to protect herself, half-expecting him to turn on her next. A few tense moments passed, and she risked a glance toward him._

_Agronak stared at the table, Owyn rushing into the hall, screaming something that she couldn't hear. Blood rushed to her ears, cutting off all sound. As her vision began to fail her, she witnessed Agronak take a swing at Owyn, the Redguard lashing out in return before the Orc stomped off and out of the Bloodworks. Owyn rushed to her side, picking her up gently in his arms. Funny, she didn't remember falling from her stool. On the ground, she saw a small smear of blood, probably her own. She noticed a cut on her cheek and Owyn's lips forming panicked shouts for Ysabel and the Dunmer who trained with Nhiilaa frequently._

_Then it all went black._

_--_

Of course, Owyn had tried to persuade her to not fight the next day. Even told her that he'd waive the vomit duty for the next three weeks if she wouldn't fight, not with that injury to her neck and her cheek. The healers spent a half hour taking care of her wound; she'd fallen on the tip of a sword on the ground that'd gotten stuck blade-side up and earned herself a nasty gash running from the back of her neck to the base of her ear. They'd gotten to her in time, and now all she had was a slight, silvery scar that wasn't really visible unless you looked real close. Still, Owyn had begged her not to go out. It didn't work. In fact, she'd fought every day since then except for days she took to work around the Bloodworks. Her favorite fight had been the one where she had to kill three Argonian prisoners from Black Marsh; justice tasted sweet amongst the pain.

Agronak hadn't spoken two words to her since that night. Not even an insult. That would have at least been bearable. At least she would have known that he hated her, instead of this state of confusion and miserable torment. Right now, she didn't know if he wanted her head on a pike or what. She couldn't tell what was going on in his head, and that was a scary thought.

The two months had been fruitful to her career; now she held the rank of 'hero', and, if this fight was to go well, she would soon be able to become the blue team's champion, if only to wipe the smug smile off of the yellow team's champion. Permanently, as it would happen.

Nhiilaa looked down at Porkchop, who circled her feet playfully as the battle announcements were yelled over the cheering crowd. At least Porkchop still cared about her, well, as much as a boar could care about a person, albeit a person who had considered the board the closest thing to a pet in the Bloodworks. Returning her harsh stare to the three fighters from the yellow team, Nhiilaa studied her opponents with a critical eye, just as Azzan had taught her. For weeks now, she watched the champion train next to Ysabel, her every move was mentally noted, and strategies formed in her head as to how to fight her. The champion's left leg was a little slow on the uptake, and if she played her cards right, Nhiilaa figured she could dodge the first blow. Her first blow was nearly _always_ a powerful lunge to the throat. If her momentum carried her, Nhiilaa could end this quickly and turn her sights to the two others, the archer and a battlemage from the looks of it.

"Lower the gates!" the announcer yelled. The two iron gates scraped as they fell to the ground, allowing the challengers to face each other for the first time without the bars obstructing them. Immediately, the champion began her charge, the two archers taking their places behind her at angles, arrow and sword trained on her, of course. Porkchop rushed as if on cue to the mage, and Nhiilaa began her own charge down center toward the champion. '_Don't you dare screw this up, Nhiilaa Ijorta_,' a voice inside her, her own, whispered angrily. With a loud cry, the Nord champion began her lunge. Only moments to react, Nhiilaa pitched her body to the left, sword swinging toward her opponent's arm. Metal caught exposed flesh, blood rushed to the surface where Arpenaletta had ripped a large gash into the champion's arm, just above the elbow.

However, no sword was dropped from the champion's hand, as Nhiilaa had hoped. A quick frown swept across her face as she re-assessed the situation, plan obliterated at this point. In her moments of confusion, she took several nicks and cuts on her exposed hands, none _too _serious, just a tad painful. An exasperated look flashed on her opponent's features; her arm was paining her, the sword dragging it down and ripping the muscles, causing blood to pour like a fount from the wound. If, by some miracle, she won, she may never be able to fight again because of this. Damn that girl. May daedra take her soul.

Fatigue took Nhiilaa quickly by its evil grip; her movements became difficult, as if moving through a tub of honey. Porkchop disposed quickly of both mage and archer, and turned his attention to the battling pair. Now they evenly matched, both tired and in immense pain from their various injuries.

"Wishing for death yet, _hero_?" the champion sneered. '_Now it's come to trash talk?'_ she thought; even thinking grew difficult.

"Not on your life, witch!" she shouted, calling up the last of her strength. The yellow team's champion let out a cackle, but that was replaced by a look of confusion as her opponent let out a sharp whistle. She glanced at a brown flash coming toward her.

It was the goddamned boar.

Porkchop rounded on the champion, squealing in delight as he knocked her in the side. The shock of it all sent her spiraling to the ground, helm padding her neck as she went down. Now Nhiilaa stood over her, a look of contempt playing upon her features.

"Shoulda been nicer to me. I _am_ just a kid after all," she commented, her boot placed heavily onto her stomach.

"Kids don't belong in the Bloodworks," was all the former yellow team's champion managed to sputter as Nhiilaa sunk Arpenaletta into her chest, ending the battle and her life.

After a spellbound moment, the new blue team's champion looked to the crowd. _Her_ crowd. A massive cheer erupted from the audience. A thought crossed her mind, and she removed her bloodied helm and waved to her people before turning on her heel. Her stride was proud up until the door to the Bloodworks, when her legs threatened to give out on her. She flung open the door and moved inside. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and in front of her stood Owyn, the blue team's Dunmer gladiator, and her father. They too erupted in cheers, Owyn yelling something about teaching that wench what for, her father smothering her in a hug. After being practically choked to death, she glanced over at the fountain that stood in the middle of the Red Room. Agronak looked over at her, no emotions in his eyes. He nodded in approval and removed himself from her presence, a ghostly air following him as he went.

"Now all that's left is to defeat the Gray Prince!" Owyn's voice interrupted her trance with a jarring feeling. Suddenly, the room grew silent, all eyes focused on him. "What? Don't you want to be the _Grand_ Champion?" She shook her head slowly.

"Dreams change, Owyn," and it came out in a whisper. Ingar gave her a harsh look and put his arm around her. "Let's take a walk. Show me the City," he muttered as he led her out the door.

For an hour they meandered through the City, not saying a word to each other. Somehow, they ended up at the Waterfront, standing a ways off from Perinea's family home. Abruptly, Ingar took his daughter by the shoulders, forcing her to stare him in the eye.

"What's changed?" he asked. It was such a simple question.

"Papa, he's my _friend_." Her voice came out in a whine, one that vaguely reminded him of her childhood when she would complain about her mother's ceaseless lessons for her.

"Nhiilaa, stop your whining," his tone was suddenly harsh, full of discipline. "That's no way for a girl of your age to behave."

"Yes Papa," she grumbled. "Wasn't aware that I was two again," she added under her breath. Ingar pretended that he didn't hear her as he continued, "My point is, this has been your dream since you were twelve-years-old! What's changed?"

"Well…" as she said this, she bit at her lip. A knowing grimace spread across her father's face.

"Nothing's changed, has it? You just don't want to kill him." And it was true. She allowed her head to nod a bit in accordance with the statement.

"I don't want to have to kill my friend… but I want to be the Grand Champion. If I didn't want it, I don't think I could have ever made it this far," she said, staring into her father's eyes. He let out a sigh and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Look, Nhiilaa, as harsh as this is going to sound, just be patient. Agronak's had a good run. I'm sure he'd agree. And… well, there's the whole issue of him bein' a halfer n' all. He's as conflicted as you are, if not more. All you can do is what's best for you at this point. You've got to ask yourself: if he wasn't your friend, and you knew he was what he is, would you go through with it?"

"… I would."

"Then there you have it."

"But, Papa, he _is_ my friend!" she protested, arms crossing defiantly.

"What about Perinea? Wasn't she his friend too?" Nhiilaa froze. The two had indeed been friends, often sparring together. "Do you really think he would hesitate like you are if you were in his shoes?" Blood dribbled from her lip, her teeth breaking the flesh. Her eyes fell downcast to her shoes; suddenly she was twelve again, feeling small and helpless.

"No… he wouldn't," she whispered into the dirt.

--

"_Papa. I want to be the Champion! I want…I want to learn to fight and…" the words came out harsh and ragged as she attempted to tell her father that she wanted to leave for the Imperial City. A look of horror and anguish was displayed on Ingar's features; it had not been a year since he lost his wife to that which she was so impassioned, and now he would surely lose his daughter, his entire world, to the same fate._

"_You're just a child! Please, Nhiilaa, have some sense!" he implored. After Hjotra's passing, he had begun to call his daughter by the name his wife had given to her the day she'd been born._

"_Papa, I have perfect sense! I wouldn't fight right away, I'd… I'd learn first! Please… all I want to do is make you and Momma proud of me." Tears welled in both sets of eyes as the pair glared at each other in agony. Silence grew in place of all the words that should have been said._

_Finally, Ingar lowered his head into his hands and wept. Instinctively, Nhiilaa put a hand on his shoulder and muttered, "I'd be back as soon as I won… I promise. Please, Papa, just let me do this. I know I can. Please."_

_One last sob tore from his chest as he looked his daughter in the face; tears were streaming from her eyes and onto her tunic. She looked strong, despite the pain and the tears. He wiped the tears from her face with his callused hands. _

"_The Arena's no place for a child."_

"_I know."_

"_And you still want to do this?"_

"_With all my heart."_

"…_Fine."_

_--_

Father and daughter slowly made their way back to the Bloodworks. Upon entry, the pair could hear Agronak's angry shouts at Owyn about how he knew the girl was the damn champion and how honestly, he couldn't care less. Anger welled in her heart; he should be happy for her, not acting like… a spoiled child. Ingar pulled her tighter and whispered into her hair, "Are you sure you still want to do this?" She nodded, more sure now than she had been since that fateful day.

"He's not acting like much of a friend anymore, is he?" she asked, broken-hearted. Her father needn't have answered; she already knew what he was going to say. As he opened his lips, she interrupted him with a powerful stare, not an angry one, but one full of understanding. "Before you say anything Papa, just know that creature is not my friend. Agronak died the day he found out his father was a monster. He was murdered by the Gray Prince, and the Prince has no _need_ for friends." It came out stronger than she had intended, and she realized that it was true.

The Gray Prince's reign of terror would soon be over at her hand; Agronak's death would not be in vain.


	10. Cat and Mouse

_Author's Note: This chapter was SUPER experimental. And uh... super short. A special thanks to Jessica Malatori for allowing me to bother her while I was awaiting inspiration and for forcing me to write. :D_

How Agronak had changed in those two months… His eyes, once a bright yellowed, were now weathered and fading, giving way to a sickly hue and crimson silk threads cracking the surface; the pupils lost all trace of kindness, and in its stead replaced with pure malice and hatred. His hair, now limp, matted to his skull, for he no longer cared to pull it into a top knot. What was more shocking still was the tone of his flesh. Once it was to be marveled at for its pure, snow white color; now… now it was sallow, crinkled like old velvet that'd been left too long in an undercroft, and it smelled of it as well. Altogether, he was like some corpse left in the sun too long, and then by a pathetic necromancer's attempts, reanimated to do his wicked bidding. No humanistic qualities remained, only damning, vile contempt for life and all things beautiful. Only a monster, and today, Nhiilaa Ijorta would be his hunter.

Five days had passed since Nhiilaa had made up her mind about the challenge. Those two days had been wrought with nausea coupled with intense pangs of agony that had sent her crashing to the floor on more than a few occasions. Was this how Perinea had spent her last days, writhing on the ground in mental and physical torment at the prospect of killing a former friend?

For some reason, she highly doubted it.

In spirit of the hunt, Nhiilaa had begun to observe her prey with a watchful eye. Agronak's swings became more lethargic, tactless even. Ceaseless 'training' was doing him no good, in fact, one could say it was more damaging than beneficial; his failing strength was open for all the Bloodworks to see. _He_ was open to see as what he truly was: a living corpse. Flesh practically falling off the bone, eyes sullen and sunk into its sockets, this was the advantage she had been looking for. Finally, it was time for the hunter to strike at her prey.

The dance of cat and mouse had just begun.

Like a shadow, she had stalked her prey. Each flick of the wrist, every minute scuffle of feet was analyzed and combated in mental simulations of various battle scenarios. The gears of her mind whirled into a flurry of tactics and mental preparation for the upcoming battle that she had yet to inform her opponent of. Of course, it would be rather difficult to catch one's prey if the hunter never drew it out into battle.

--

_At the time, it had seemed so cruel to do. After all, it was just a lone wolf. Couldn't they have just moved the flock somewhere else? Somewhere safer… To kill an animal just for obeying its natural instincts was… abhorring. It would be like telling a child not to breath because the air would be killed in his moist lungs._

_Of course, it was nothing of the sort. A wolf was just a wolf, and this particular wolf just happened to be thinning the flock of sheep that fed and clothed a good portion of Falkreath. Human lives mattered more to its citizens than the life of an individual creature; to retain balance, things must be sacrificed, as Hjotra had told her daughter on the eve before the hunt. In order to maintain civility, innocent blood would have to be shed._

_None of the children had been permitted to assist the small hunting party, wolves were too dangerous. Not that it mattered; Nhiilaa had hated hunting with her father in the days before. Tears had rolled down her cheeks every time she captured a snow hare in her traps and had to sever its neck with her small, child sized dagger. Instead of leaving with their fathers, children of those in the party, Nhiilaa among them, clamored at the border where town met forest and waved their fathers off._

_Hjotra just prayed to Ysmir that her husband would come home safely._

_--_

And here she was, playing the role of the hunter, except this time, no tears sprung in her eyes for the innocent blood about to be shed. Her game was a monster, a threat to humanity. Now, eleven years after her father had left to kill that wolf, as he had done many times before, she realized that what he killed was not just a wolf, but a danger to life itself. Preparations were to be finished quickly; one could not stalk one's prey for an eternity.

With as much grace and civility that she could muster, the huntress now descended from her cloak of shadows into the glimmering candlelight. It was late, the Bloodworks ran cold with inactivity, and the only sound to be heard was the dull smash of a sword hitting a target. Soft leather shoes padded their way across the stone floor toward the bearer of the blade, and a hand emerged from a pocket to grasp the Orc powerfully by the shoulder.

"Agronak."

"What is it, Nhiilaa?" The Gray Prince asked wearily. He was too old, too tired to be entertaining the youth. Where fingers contacted the exposed flesh of his shoulder, he could feel her blood pulse underneath her skin. It was… tantalizing. All his instincts screamed 'Kill the girl!' and yet, he resisted, knuckled fleshing white as his grip on the hit of his sword tightened.

"You do know I've become a champion, correct?" she asked coyly, attempting to maintain a casual tone. It was a stress.

With a nod, he added, "What of it?" A wicked grin cracked her solace.

"I've come to challenge your position. Do you accept?" He paused his swinging to stare her full in the face. There was no hint of remorse, no hint of any repentance in her eyes. A sudden rage boiled throughout his veins, burning at the surface of his flesh. His eyes dimmed, world growing dark and sinister. Shadows leapt from corners that shouldn't have existed, Vaermina's sinister followers grasping at his skin with claws and beaks.

"The Gray Prince never balks from a challenge," he glowered, shaking off the minions of the dark. White teeth flashed in the dark, almost blinding him. Obviously, it was the answer she had expected. Night consumed his vision once more and was quickly overtaken by shades of red, blood red.

He would enjoy her defeat very much; he could feel it in his bones, in his _blood_.

--

Ysabel was old. She knew this, she felt this. And yet Owyn eyed her from his corner across from the room. Despite the number of times she refused him, in the face of all the scowls and all the abuse that she forced him to endure, he came back. The boy must be a masochist or some of that sort of ilk, she figured. If that was indeed the case, well, that was just another reason to refuse him all the more. She'd have none of that around her; it was enough to have to deal with these muscle-heads trying in vain to defeat the Prince. Sooner or later one with a moderate amount of skill would come along and slaughter her meal ticket.

She'd got rather used to having a steady source of income. The fact that they rarely communicated was all the better. For both parties.

Her thoughts of Owyn were quite rudely interrupted by a cough, a _feminine_ cough, from someone who was standing, frankly, too close for comfort. Ysabel opened her eyes to see the seventeen-year-old _prat_ who'd been, until recently, scrubbing the Red Room. Natalie, or something of that sort. It didn't matter, she didn't care.

"Owyn's over there, girl. Go get your instructions from him," she told her, patience already at its end.

"I'm not here for orders." The Nord girl's voice was bossy, not a tone that Ysabel liked at all.

"Then what're you here for? I've no time for your kind of filth."

"… I'd like to challenge the Prince."

Ysabel sputtered. The _Prince_. The damned fool wanted to challenge the goddamn Gray Prince.

"Well I'll be damned. He accept your challenge?" At this, Natalie, or whatever her name was, nodded solemnly. "Name?"

"Nhiilaa Ijorta," the girl muttered, face falling a bit. Ysabel passed a critical eye over… Nhiilaa Ijorta. Damned funny name.

"That won't do. You'll need an Arena name. Something with… pizzazz." At this, the Battle Matron began prattling off suggestions for her Arena name. One caught her attention at its mention. Her father would be proud; he'd always said that Ysmir had blessed her specifically. Her mother would have been proud had she still been alive; creatures of lore caught her interest especially.

"That one," she announced immediately.

"What one?"

"The one you just said. _Dragonheart_." The words flowed off her tongue as if it were meant to be.

"_You've the heart of a dragon, Nhiilaa. There's a fire in your belly that will never be quenched."_


	11. Ashes to Ashes

_Author's Note: So yeah, it's another short chapter, but I was inspired to write this, and I really wanted to write a Gray Prince-perspective chapter before the whole thing was said and done._

Sleep.

In theory, sleep was such a simple thing. Head would rest on a pillow, eyes shut, breathing relaxed, deep and even. Dreams of immortality and victory against some invincible enemy invading the subconscious. Bliss.

When sleep became a manifestation of hellions, that was one thing he didn't know. The dreams had started out laughably. Gentle sunbeams relaxed and warmed his flesh in one; the next day he discovered that those very beams he had dreamt about burned his pale skin. Over time, the dreams began a metamorphosis into the spawn of the dark, each more frightening than the last. Vile leeches draining mortals of their precious life-blood, only to realize that these very vampires had his very own face. Most recently, Vaermina cursed him with a nightmare of starvation. Not for the food of mortals. Ambrosia would have been far too… bland. Nay, he hungered for that which flowed through him: blood. In his weakened state he had staggered toward a holy spring of what looked was water. No… not water. The spring was that of which he craved. As he crouched on all fours like the beast that he was, and as he bent his lips to drink of the nourishment, he realized in horror that he could not part his lips. A glance into the liquid told him what this trickery was: his lips had been sewn shut with an awful black thread, his own blood dribbling from the wounds still. From this, he had awoken, drenched in sweat. His reflection in the mirror was less than satisfactory: already his features were becoming more angular and haggard, and his eyes cracked with scarlet webbing.

In those days that followed, he found that he could no longer stomach the swill that Owyn had passed off as "food". Nor could he partake in the delicacies that he had ordered one night at The King and Queen Tavern. Lights shone brighter than he remembered and people themselves looking… delicious. He was transfixed by the rhythmic twitch of their chests as their hearts beat, and he could swear he could hear the contractions of the muscles. He would gave longingly at every person he passed, particularly at their throat, yearning to reach out and touch it. To rip out the vocal chords and feast.

Instinct got the better of him once. Just once. Only a few people would have missed her, those were her fellow beggars, and quite possibly the Gray Fox. Now he had one less informant, so it was rumored. That kill had been sweeter than all the other kills that had gained him his fame and glory combined, that kill had sustained him. He hadn't fed since then. Damn conscious got the better of him.

Now it was the eve before his battle with that pathetic Nord lass, _Dragonheart_. The days of their friendship seemed an eternity ago, and a lifetime of solace taken in from precious memories died that night. Once upon a time he would have just subjected his title to her; it was what he had planned to do all along. No bloodshed, no tears. Now… now that he had taken a long draught of blood from one victim, his thirst had yet to be quenched. A 'hero's' blood, the blood of a girl so caught up in courage, yes, that would be like a fine, aged wine to his pallet.

The Gray Prince took his cloak from a hook next to a sleeping Ysabel and wrapped it about his shoulders. With a grunt, he pulled the hood to cast an almost sinister shadow over his features as he stepped out into the cool night. He could not feel the wafting breeze caress his decrepit flesh; he couldn't feel much of anything. Though it was one of Nocturnal's most blessed nights, he could see the City as clear as a mortal would see the day. With unearthly grace, he passed through the streets to a shack that, at one time, he knew well. It was nestled on the Waterfront. Memories of this shack floated through his mind in a haze. He brushed off the feelings of nostalgia as he opened the door, for the lock had long been broken. His victims lay in a straight row, a family of six Bretons. On a makeshift table, he saw, was a pewter urn. Moonbeams shone down upon it, casting hated light into his eyes, burning them. He winced in pain as he turned his first prey of the evening, the matriarch of the family. She lay in peace on her bedroll, her tired face relaxed in slumber.

The Prince located the vein on her neck, placing his fingers gingerly over it. Precious blood pulsed underneath his fingertips as his lowered himself to his knees. As a mother would cradle her child, so did the Prince cradle the old woman, bringing her neck to his hungry lips. Her eyes flew open at the contact, but before she could cry out and awaken the entire Waterfront, she was silenced with a sharp blow to her head, though not enough for her to die. Fangs punctured her throat, the crimson fluid passing from her to her assailant.

After he had drunk her dry, he moved onto her children, killing them one by one in the same fashion. The Prince stood, wiping the dribble of blood that had escaped his parted lips away. He spared one last glance at his victims; at first glance they appeared to be asleep, until you noticed their shriveled flesh and their matching wounds adorning their throats like jewels. His attention return to the urn, glowering up at him from its perch on the table accusingly. In a rage, he picked it up, ignoring the slight burn from the light. It struck the ground with a sickly crash, and despite it being made of a metal, shattered upon impact, ashes strewn across the earth.

The Gray Prince left the shack in good spirits. Instead of returning to the Bloodworks, he awoke the proprietor of The Tiber Septim Hotel and spent the night in its luxuries, allowing for Vaermina once more to grip him by the jugular in her wicked embrace.

When he awoke before the dawn, his features were less pronounced, his skin smoothened, but the blood of his victims had stained his eyes completely crimson.


	12. The Day of Waiting

_Author's Note: More special thankin' to Jessica Malatori for her awesome-ness and listenin' to me whine about not having inspiration. XD There's actually a reason for it to be on the below specified day. Whoever can guess why gets a cookie :D_

_--_

First Seed 9, 3E431

Twilight broke over the Imperial City. The sky was wrapped majestically in a robe of royal purples and blues, embroidered in rich reds and forming intricate patterns. It wore the setting sun as a magnificent crown, and the White Gold Tower as its amulet. Spectators lined up in front of the small Bosmer man taking bets for the upcoming fight. Odds were staking up quickly in Agronak's favor, and thousands of people thought that quick riches were in their near future. The stands of both sides filled quickly, a more private box reserved for the Emperor and his bodyguards; it wasn't everyday that the Gray Prince fought a battle, especially against such a promising fighter. Despite all her appeal, the Prince retained his status.

The Arena had been closed that day in preparation. Torches were lit, illuminating the gentle fog and giving the battlefield an eerie glow, almost… ghostly, though altogether far too corporeal. The combatants stood on opposite sides of the field, thick iron gates preventing a premature battle. Excitement had blossomed in the pit of Nhiilaa's stomach early that morning, not for fear of death, but for the anticipation of fame and glory. In her heart, she felt she could— no, would— win this battle. And yet, in the back of her mind, a pang of nervousness plucked at her thoughts. Deep inside, she wondered, '_Can I really do this?_'

Of course, she reminded herself. After all, the Prince had withered into nothingness, a pathetic shell of his former glory. She _planned_ this fight, and she was determined to make it work in her favor. A shift in her stance, her sword unsheathed in her right hand and shield held by her left, and she was ready. At least, she _hoped_ she was ready. The sun passed beyond the far off hill, and night settled over the land, painting it with her dark brushes.

The sickening metallic scrape of the gate awoke her from her stupor. Somehow, she had missed the announcer's commentary on the upcoming battle. Excited cheers erupted from the stands, spectators on their feet, cheering for the Prince. They were calling to him, calling for her blood to be spilled upon the earth, like daedra crying out to their unholy lords. Slowly, with a purposeful stride, she walked towards the iron grating in the center of the ring to face her enemy. A gasp escaped her lips, bravado melting into terror: this was not the husk she had challenged. In its place was a creature that had been created in the darkest crevices of Oblivion itself, forged from the very essence of malevolence, and imbued with the power of nightmares, much like the daedric blade it carried in its pale claw. Shimmering black hair pulled into a knot on the top of his head, skin luminescent from his dark harvest the previous night, eyes red as the scarlet moon creeping into the sky. The Gray Prince stalked out from beyond the gate, the stench of death and torture in his wake. Mist parted, or rather evaporated, to clear a way for him to her, and the crowd fell into a hushed whisper as he entered the field.

A cold sweat broke on her brow, and a chill spread through her veins. Limbs transformed to lead with every step of the Prince, anchoring her in terror to her position. His shadow passed over her as he approached, eyes filled with fear staring upward into the face of her enemy. Solace broke with a sinister grin across his face. Rancid breath passed over his lips and onto her skin as he lowered himself to her level. A low chuckle from deep within his chest shattered the silence as tears welled in her eyes. Finally, the Prince spoke to his prey.

"Farewell, _old friend_," he sneered, plunging his blade into her belly, steel armor parted like water in its path. Numbness flowered through her body, and she glanced down. Blood flowed slightly from her wound, seemingly feeding the vile sword which impaled her. She staggered backwards, her lips flecked crimson. Tears burned off as she looked back at the Prince, eyes full of hatred and malevolence glaring back at her. Yellow eyes. Nhiilaa Ijorta's own blue eyes opened wide in shock, sense growing dim as she fell to the ground, sword still resting in its fleshy sheath. Her vision began to fade as she could, just barely, hear her father's angered sobs, laced with torment and agony.

She had failed. Her eyes shut involuntarily as the booming laugh of the Gray Prince rose above her father's sobs. "Children don't belong in the Bloodworks," he spat as the sound of his boots scraping the dirt signified him turning her back on the quickly dying Nord.

Dying breaths escaped her lips, coming out ragged and harsh. He enjoyed the sounds of death, the sounds of his enemy falling to his skill, his blade. The Gray Prince waved to his subjects, who cheered him on from above.

"Well it's a damn good thing I'm not a child, now isn't it?" a voice questioned from behind him. No… it couldn't be. He spun around to face _Dragonheart_ clutching her wound, his blade on the ground in a smear of her blood. Blood had spattered in the ends of her hair, ribbons that had held her dual plaits in place had fallen to the ground in her defeat, and her gold hair flowed over her shoulder, glittering in the faint light. Worst of all, she was standing, Arpenaletta still in her hand, but shield on the ground.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you, Dragonheart," he sneered, recovering his composure. To his annoyance, she chuckled.

"We Nords don't know when to give up. We're too thick-headed, don't you know?" As she said this, he went to raise his sword, but remembered that it was on the ground at her feet. No matter, he would rip her apart with his bare hands. The world around them disappeared as he launched himself at her. No spectators. No Arena. No Imperial City. Just the two combatants, pitched in a deadly waltz. Time slowed for the two, each moment lasting years upon years, bleeding into centuries.

The Gray Prince hurled himself at her, claws outstretched, grasping for her exposed throat. A loud battle cry tore from her lungs as she raised Arpenaletta. The blade shone brightly with Masser's red beams as she rushed toward her enemy, both hands on her weapon.

And then it was finished. The Prince sneered.

This grin was plastered onto his face for all eternity as his head rolled off of his shoulders and hit the dirt with a damning thud. His body fell only a second later, blood pooling onto the ground where the head had been.

Cheering ripped her back from the haunting plane in which they had been trapped. She looked to the audience and smiled. As Owyn and her father burst from the Bloodworks to embrace her, the entire world grew dim. Her own blood poured from her wounds, and she fell to the earth in a crumpled heap.

A deadly silence washed over her.


	13. Aftermath

It was unclear as to how long she had been drifting along the river. Hours, days, it didn't really matter. She was just going forward, and there wasn't anything that she could do about it. The oar she'd been using a while back to attempt to turn around had been sucked up by the current a long time ago. The odd thing was it didn't even make a sound when it fell in. Then again, nothing that she did made a sound. It was as if the entire area around her was devoid of sound. And shadows. Everything was a bright, almost burning white, except for the river itself. The river itself was the kind of blue that couldn't really seem to decide whether it was blue or green, or some color in between.

So here she was, stuck in a dingy oak boat without a paddle, floating on without a destination. Nhiilaa looked over the side of the boat; faces were still glaring up at her, pitched in eternal, soundless screams. She inhaled, noting for the umpteenth time that there was, indeed, no scent to the air that surrounded her. If it was air, that is. One could never be too sure here.

As she floated down, she laid down on the bottom of the boat, staring up and the blinding whiteness that either served as eternity and had no limit or the top was obnoxiously close to her nose. The boat rocked, which was a first for the little hunk of oak. She shook it off, boats shook. No big deal. Suddenly, she was dumped unceremoniously into the river. At first she thought she had gone blind, but as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she realized that the boat was on top of her head, shading her from the pure light.

The river was cold. She expected that. Generally, rivers were cold. However, this river felt different. Not only was it cold, it was… lumpy? It felt as if her legs were being assailed by a barrage of almost solid things, but not quite. The river felt like porridge. She took a cautious step backwards with the current, then another. Soon, she was daydreaming underneath her boat-shade and walking backwards along with the quickening tide. A sound of rushing water filled her ears, and she lost her footing.

She was falling.

The white light burst on her sight like an explosion as she flew down the side of a waterfall. A misty dragon made to snap her up in its maw as she hit the water. The water was surprisingly warm.

--

"… healer said she's lucky to be alive," a male voice murmured, but it came out muffled and filled with pain. Nhiilaa stirred, dim lights shining past her eyelids. Quickened footsteps and stools falling followed, and she could feel the breath of people on her face as they crowded her, hushed whispers jarring her mind into awareness. Flickering candlelight cast shadows of humanoids on her vision as she struggled to open her eyes. Pain erupted in her abdomen and she let out a yell of agony.

"Someone get the damned healer!" yelled the same man whose voice had woken her, Ingar's voice. More shoe-scuffling and someone lifted her head up, shoving a noxious smelling, and oddly warm, fluid down her throat, causing her to choke and cough. At least the pain subsided a bit. Her eyes focused to see Owyn, her father, Ysabel of all people, and some strange woman hovering around her. Ingar looked as if he were about to cry in happiness as he rushed toward his daughter, only to be pulled back by the strange woman. A Breton healer from the Chapel, Nhiilaa presumed.

"You'll only exacerbate her wound if you go and rush on her like that," the healer tutted. Ingar glared at her with a defeated look in his eye. All eyes turned back to her as the healer bent to her level. "So you're finally awake. How are you feeling?"

"… Like I just got stabbed. How do you _think_ I'm feeling?" Nhiilaa croaked, somehow embedding sarcasm within the statement. Her entourage chuckled, minus the healer, who only glared at her; even in the face of death, the lass had _something_ to say.

Silence spread throughout the room. She sighed and cleared her throat. "I'm hungry," she muttered, just hoping to break it. Ysabel excused herself and slinked off, presumably to fetch a bowl of whatever mush Owyn had prepared. For the first time, she noticed her surroundings. It was the makeshift 'infirmary' that lay in one awkward and particularly dank corridor of the dormitory. Her head was up against a wall, and she laid on a somewhat raised platform, scattered bottles of potions lying on the floor next to it. There was a stool settled next to her left side, and what she recognized as Ingar's whittling knife and a large hunk of wood sat next to the stool. The hunk of wood was in the middle of being carved, it looked like, into a figurine of a lizard-like creature; the detail thus far was magnificent.

She returned her attention to the crowd of people around her who were staring down at her with intensity. Ysabel had returned with a bowl, and quickly the healer snatched it up, stirring in whatever that foul smelling liquid that had been forced down her throat in with it.

"Great, just make it taste worse," Nhiilaa joked nervously.

"It'll get you better faster," was all the reply she got. Ingar sighed as he took his place on the stool, and Owyn muttered something about attending to the rest of the Bloodworks and ushered Ysabel out of the room with him. Now only her father and the healer were left with her. Nhiilaa sighed as she moved to sit up. Her wound burst into pain, a scream followed suit and tore from her lips in response. Immediately, Ingar rushed to the aid of his daughter, tears stinging at his eyes.

"Don't sit up, you stupid girl!" the healer snapped, squatting next to the platform. She grasped Nhiilaa by the jaw and forced open her lips, shoving the vile porridge into her mouth as quite tears rolled from the girl's eyes. The porridge did indeed make her feel a bit better, but not completely. Pain still welled in her abdomen, and she pulled her blanket down to survey the damage.

Her entire midsection had been wrapped in tight bandages over the thin linen shirt she had worn underneath her armor, a small blotch of blood staining the outermost layer. She lifted a hand to her head; another bandage had been pulled around her forehead, blood dried in her hair, causing it to stick up at all ends. A hand grasped hers, and she looked up at her father, a grimace of knowing plastered on his face.

After making sure that Nhiilaa consumed every last scrap of porridge, the healer left the room to leave father and daughter to stare at each other in solace. An uneasy peace swallowed the room, and Ingar cleared his throat awkwardly.

"So… how long have I been out?" she asked cautiously.

"Erm, about two days? A little more, perhaps. I don't know how the hell you keep time in this pit," he said, attempting to make light of it.

"Oh." Silence fell over the pair once again. Nhiilaa closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the Bloodworks, the clanging of metals, curses tossed around, and… crying? No, crying didn't fit in the usual sounds of the Bloodworks. Her eyes opened in search of the source. It seemed to be coming from… right next to her. Where her father sat on his stool, head in his hands.

"Papa?" she asked, voice coming out tiny and helpless. His head lifted up, eyes puffy and red.

"Yeah, Nhiilaa? Do you need something?" He wiped away the tears staining his cheeks as he moved to her side.

"You're crying…." A horrible feeling welled in her heart, and she could feel her own tears forming in her eyes.

"So I am," he said, letting out a low chuckle.

"Papa..." She moved to embrace her father, ignoring the pain spreading in her abdomen as best she could. Ingar buried his head in her shoulder, crying freely now. A minute or so passed, and he regained his composure. He pulled back and once again rubbed the tears off of his face.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Nhiilaa stared at her father, bewildered. Shouldn't she be apologizing to him?

"Papa, I'm the one that should be sorry… I was a fool for letting my guard down… I—" Her words were cut off by a finger placed on her lips, just like he did when she was a child. In response, her cheeks puffed up involuntarily, causing him to laugh a bit.

"Don't be sorry. It's not your fault," he said reassuringly. "It's just been a very… well to be damn honest, the last two days have been down right _terrifying_. To lose your mother… and then almost lose you. I don't think my old heart could've taken it."

Soft tears rolled out of her eyes. "I… I didn't mean to hurt you," she mumbled as she lay back down. Ingar reached out and touched the bandage on her head gingerly and hummed an old song he used to sing to her as a child after Hjotra had died. She closed her eyes, breathing in with the rhythm of the tune.

"Nhiilaa, I'm just glad you're alright," he whispered as she fell back asleep.

--

_The sky over Anvil was filled with bright stars that night in particular. It was the stars that Ingar noticed first, because the two moons were not overhead that night, and yet it was as bright as any other. Peace and serenity had settled over the city like a thick blanket as a lone Dunmer, sword in hand, ran towards one of the nicer homes of the area. The quiet was diminished by the metallic clanking of his dwarven boots, a tattered and bloodied cloak masking the rest of his armor. Red hair wisped behind him as he half ran, half walked towards the home of Ingar and Hjotra._

_A fire crackled in the fireplace, the scent of the wood mingling with the smell of Ignar's pipe, creating a rich, smoky fragrance that never seemed to disappear. A book from his wife's personal library was held by his free hand; Ingar didn't know what the hell this book was blabbering about, but then again, it was so like Hjotra to own such a completely perplexing tome and actually have her husband attempt to read it. Half of it was written in some gibberish language, Ayleid, he presumed, as she had also forced an Ayleid translation list into his hands before she had left. All was quiet in the home._

_Then a heavy knock came at the door. Ingar stared at the door in wonder and said aloud, "Who the hell could that be? It's past midnight!" At first he was just going to ignore it. It was late, and as soon as he deciphered whatever this one sentence was going on about he was going to bed, but the knocking persisted, growing more and more urgent with each pound on the old door. 'Any more knocking like that and the whole door will fall off,' Ingar figured, and with a sigh, he snapped shut the book and went to answer it._

"_If you've woken up my daughter, I swear I'll—" he began to hiss at the caller, but stopped upon seeing who it was and what he carried in his hand. "… You better come in."_

_The Dunmer nodded and followed Ingar as he led him to a pair of stools in front of the hearth. After sitting, he held out the sword for Ingar to take. It was Arpenaletta. Hjotra had taken it as protection before she left for the ruins, despite that she only had rudimentary knowledge in swordplay. If he had begged her once, he had begged her a thousand times to learn to fight without the aid of magicks._

_She was as stubborn as her daughter._

"_How?" he managed to rasp out. The Dunmer pulled off his cloak to reveal his battle thrashed cuirass. Whatever had caught him was powerful, strong enough to almost rip the dwarven metals into shreds._

"_We were ambushed by… by things. Golden things. They carried axes of Ayleid craft. Hjotra wanted to run once she had heard them outside the cavern we were excavating… but we wouldn't listen. Carahil wanted to preserve the texts we'd just found, and she was scribbling them in her notebook as fast as she could. But… they got us. A whole army, practically. They… they killed Quintis and Baerlyn first. Carahil ran first, not telling any of us. Hjotra… she killed two or three before they caught up to her. She tossed me your sword and her necklace and screamed for me to take it to you. Everyone else fought 'sides me and Carahil. They all died. I'm… sorry, Ingar." His face fell as he retold his story, rummaging in his satchel. A beautiful silver pendant of a dragon wrapped around a ruby appeared in his hand, and Ingar took it from him._

"_Felen…" was all that he could muster to say._

"_I'll be taking my leave then…I really am sorry, Ingar. She was a valued member of the Guild… We'll all miss her greatly." The door clicked behind him as he let himself out, leaving the Nord to sit by himself in front of the dying fire. Tears in his eyes, he stood to place Arpenaletta on the mantle. Those same tears rolled silently down his cheeks as he ascended the staircase into the dark main hallway. The pendant hung from his hand, almost as if it were leading him down the hall. With a gentle nudge, he pushed open the door to his daughter's bedroom. Starlight illuminated the room and reflected off of the necklace as he sat on the edge of her bed. He fastened the pendant around her neck before scooping her up into his arms._

"_Ijorta… wake up, little one," he whispered in the darkness. Nhiilaa let out a yawn and opened her eyes, which shone like two bright little stars. "Papa?" Her voice was small and helpless in the void._

"_Ijorta, do you remember how Momma went into the big ruins to learn more things?"_

"_Yes, she said that she'd be back soon… Is Momma home already? Can I see her?" Ingar let out an involuntary chuckle._

"_No, sweetheart. Momma… Momma's not going to be home anytime soon," he half-whispered, attempting to wear a brave face._

"_That's okay, Papa. Momma will write us lots of letters. She always does when she goes to the City." Her innocence was refreshing to him, but it just made this all the harder. He fumbled for a way to explain it so that she wouldn't be broken hearted as he was._

"_Momma's… Momma's gone away… She's teaching all our gods what it's like here in the mortal lands…" It seemed good enough. More tears obscured his vision, and he accidentally let out a small sob. Nhiilaa looked at him questioningly and puffed out her cheeks._

"_Papa?" Her voice was childish, yet it had a new edge to it. "Momma's not coming back, is she?" At the end of the sentence, the icy feel had melted into tears._

"…_No… she's not." Ingar grasped his daughter in a tight hug and she buried her little face in his shirt and sobbed, crying out for her mother to come in and make the bad dreams go away._

_All he could do was rock her as she cried herself to sleep and sing her the only song that he could remember at the time._

'_Can't you hear it mother? Now don't you want to go… and leave this world of sorrow and troubles here below?"_

--

A week passed after she had awoken, Ingar by her side the entire time. Owyn made frequent stops to make sure she was healing alright. The daedric magicks that had been used to forge the blade had prevented the healer's spell from healing it entirely when she had originally obtained it, but she was expected to make a full recovery. All she would have would be a nasty scar, but that seemed trivial compared to the amount of pain she was in. The potions helped, but nothing could take the entire edge off. As the wound healed, the pain faded, and by the end of the week, Nhiilaa could move about freely without doubling over in agony.

It was morning when Owyn entered the room at the end of the week, a shadow of ill tidings washing over him.

"Nhiilaa?" His voice shook as he spoke.

"Yes, Owyn?" She was in an unusually sunny disposition, all things considered.

"I, erm… I have some bad news." Silence. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you. I'm not sure I want to know what it is, though," she said matter-of-factly.

"You need to hear this," he insisted. A pause. "Alright, come in," she responded. Immediately, he moved from his post at the doorway and sat at a small table at which she was seated. In his hands he held a paper which he passed to her. Before she could read it, he began to speak.

"The Andris family's been found dead," he said quickly. Numbness flowered through her veins as she let out an involuntary gasp. "The… entire family. They were murdered, Nhiilaa. Necks all bitten up and everything. A… witness testified that… that they saw Agronak around the shack the night they think that they were killed."

"When?" was all she could rasp.

"Night before the fight. Nhiilaa… I'm sorry." Owyn moved to wrap her in a hug, but she turned away.

"They think… that the Gray Prince killed them, is that right?"

"Yeah. One of the guard was here while you were out and took his cloak. Damn thing was covered in blood. But… there was little blood at the shack. And it was strange… the blood was all around the hood." Nhiilaa stared beyond Owyn. "…Are you listening!?"

"I'm listening."

"Do you understand then?" To his confusion, a look of knowing flashed in her eyes. She shook her head and whispered, "The poor, poor fool." She must've seen the look of utter bewilderment in his face, because she added, "Don't you see Owyn?" Owyn didn't in fact see what she meant, and she didn't bother to explain either. All she did was stand, slip on her shoes, and exit the Bloodworks, but Owyn knew where she was headed. Ingar let her go on her own; this was something she had to do by herself.

The frost of the early morning air caught her lungs sharply, but the chill was welcome in contrast to the hot, stuffy climate of the Bloodworks. Only the beggars and merchants were up so early, along with a few half-asleep guards. Mumbles of the street were accompanied by the soft sound of her leather shoes hitting the stones as she made her way out of the gates and onto the Waterfront. In contrast to the empty city, the docks were busy with the sounds of shifting boxes and sailors swearing at one another. Guards swarmed in front of the shack, yelling something about an investigation as she shoved her way inside.

It was the smell that got to her first. Rotting, fetid flesh was not the most pleasant scent first thing in the morning. The corpses of the family were lined up where they had slept, and a small blood pool coagulated under each of their necks. Captain Lex shouted something about her needing to get out immediately, how she could contaminate evidence.

"Oh just shut up, you damn loony!" she spat as she pushed past him. Hands grabbed her by the arms and yanked her out of the shack despite her protests. The door was slammed in her face, leaving her out in the cold. She began to pound on the door until her hands bled from the jagged splinters of the wood. Finally, she just slipped to her knees, sobs violently shaking her ribcage, mud dirtying her cheeks as she fell forward.

It was evening when Nhiilaa returned to the Bloodworks. A bowl of broth had been left on the table for her, and she ate in silence. An hour later, Ingar entered the room to comfort her. That was when she lost all control. Sobs ripped from her chest freely, and her father held her as she cried herself to sleep and sang her the same song.

The morning brought a new day, despite all of her prayers to Alduin that he would just gobble up the world. With a heavy heart, she arose and confronted Ysabel about her payment. The Gray Prince's body had long been burned, his armor preserved though for display purposes. With praises and beaming looks, Ysabel handed Nhiilaa her new raiment.

It was a bittersweet victory. "Sometimes it's just worth the pain," a voice from long ago echoed inside her heart.

This was one time where it was not worth the pain. It just couldn't have been helped.

--

_Author's Note: And that's it! Dragonheart is done! I want to thank Jessica Malatori especially for helping me out a LOT with this chapter. It woulda really sucked without her._


End file.
